The Unstoppable Molly Hooper
by patemalah21
Summary: Molly is tired of being a doormat and is ready to take action. Martial Arts classes are only the first step and the men in her life had better watch out! *STORY COMPLETE*
1. Determination

Molly centered her body and concentrated. The sounds and movements around her faded until she barely noticed them. The attacker was behind her. His arms came around, pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her feet from the floor. Molly shifted her hips left and right, kicking her dangling

heels against his shins and forced her head hard back against his nose. As his grip loosened and her feet touched the ground, she smoothly placed her right foot around his foot and moved into the horse position. Her hand grabbed and lifted his groin. With an exhalation of breath and sound, Molly drove her right knee into the back of his thigh as her arm came up and struck his solar plexus. As she moved back into defensive stance, his body made a satisfying thump on the floor mat.

"That's much better Molly." her Shou Shu instructor grinned up at her. "Shall we try again?"

An hour later, showered and dressed, Molly picked up her pink exercise bag and headed back to Bart's. There was plenty of time to finish her work, even if it meant she would be stay

ing late. It wasn't like she had a date or anything. Molly always felt relaxed and ready to take on the world after a workout. There was nothing like being able to toss a man around and hear his body smack the floor to make a girl feel good.

She reflected upon the progress she was making. Everything was going really well. Her instructor said she was a natural whatever that meant. The martial arts classes and the women's self defense courses were definitely helping her self esteem. It was getting easier to be confident and assertive.

It made her cringe when she thought about how gullible Jim Moriarity had made her feel. What had she ever seen in the creep? It unnerved her when she thought about who and what he really was. Sherlock was right, when it came to judgment in picking boyfriends, her choices were dismal. All of the men she had dated in the past four years had been a bit dodgy, but Jim Moriarity was at the top of the list. Even Sherlock whom she had not dated, but was strongly attracted to, was not what you could call "normal."

It wasn't a simple thing to find a date when most men were squeamish about dating a girl who cut up dead people for a living. Surely there was a man somewhere who wasn't strange, creepy or a master criminal? An ordinary man was what she wanted. One who would love and care about her. One that didn't mind that she was painfully shy, or thought she was strange for enjoying her job. She firmly squared her shoulders and reminded herself that things were changing. She was her own woman. No man was going to manipulate her ever again.

Well, perhaps only one man she corrected herself silently as thoughts of Sherlock flashed in her mind. Earlier that day, Sherlock had casually commandeered her to help in the lab. Instead of going to lunch as she had planned, she had meekly complied. That was the reason she needed to return to work now. She needed to finish the work that had been interrupted by Sherlock. It wasn't that Molly minded helping him, it was just that he took it for granted that she would drop everything. She was tired of being a doormat.

Sherlock Holmes was a big problem for her. Sometimes she wasn't sure whether she loved or hated him. A little of Sherlock went a long way, especially when he was being cruel and hurtful. Ever since she had made a fool of herself at the Christmas party at Sherlock's flat, Molly had been trying to move on. She didn't stand a chance with Sherlock anyway, as long as John Watson was around. She knew which way the wind blew with those two, even if they didn't. It was sad. Sherlock did not allow people to get close to him. She doubted if even John could change that. They were so adorable together, Sherlock grousing and John arguing right back. Despite John's disclaimers to the contrary, they were a couple. Like salt and pepper, cup and saucer, it was Sherlock and John.

Molly liked John. It didn't make her jealous that he was with Sherlock. Sherlock needed him and allowed him closer than anyone else. That was good. John was kind, thoughtful and funny. John stood up for her when Sherlock was being nasty.

Molly had thought about asking John out for drinks or coffee once or twice, but somehow it hadn't felt quite right. Besides, Sherlock was the sun in Molly's universe and the quiet reflection of the moon who was John, got lost in his brilliance.

Molly was worried about Sherlock. She could tell something was wrong. She had tried to talk with him this morning, but in true Sherlock form, he refused to admit he knew what she was talking about. "He's blocking me out again," she thought sadly. At least she had not been so intimidated this time. Sherlock had tried to interrupt her and had actually told her to stop talking, but she had managed to get out all the things she had wanted to say instead of squeaking like a mouse and running away. Not that it helped of course. No one could make Sherlock talk if he didn't want. Was he in trouble? Did he have a terminal disease? The way he looked so sad sometimes was enough to break Molly's heart. She had tried to let him know that she understood and wanted to help, but she didn't think she had gotten through to him.

Molly carefully stacked her papers and placed the book she intended to return to the research library on top to anchor them down. That lot could wait until morning, she decided. It was late, she was tired, and it was past time to be gone. She opened the drawer to her desk, dropped several pens inside and clicked it shut. She picked up her purse and headed into the lab near the exit.

Working in a morgue did not bother her, but she was usually very careful when leaving late at night. When the deep voice came from the darkness, Molly she recognized the voice as belonging to Sherlock.

"You were wrong, Molly. You do count. You have always counted, and I have always trusted you. But you were right, I'm not okay."

Molly stared into the dimness at the shadows carving Sherlock's face into dark planes and angles.

"Tell me what's wrong," she said.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die.""

"What do you need?"

With a painful intake of breath, Sherlock continued. "If I wasn't everything you thought I was, everything I thought I was, would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?" Molly repeated.

"You." Sherlock closed the space between them and lowered his head.

Somewhere in the depths of her being Molly dragged up her courage and softly placed two fingers of her right hand against Sherlock's lips stopping his attempt to kiss her. "No Sherlock," she said in a low whisper, "you know how I feel about you. . . I can't help that," she admitted reluctantly. "You don't have to kiss me to get me to help you. How can I help?"

"Who said I didn't want to kiss you?" Sherlock asked softly and trapped her fingers against his chest as he lowered his head once again.

It was all that Molly had ever dreamed kissing Sherlock would be; sweet, gentle, a promise of endless possibilities. But Molly could also sense deep sadness. Regret? For what? It was almost as if Sherlock was saying goodbye.

Then suddenly the kiss changed and became more, so much more. It was all Molly could do to hang on and try to survive. The sweetness became a burning flame that threatened to consume her. Heat coursed down her spine and literally curled her toes. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.

Sherlock pulled away and Molly could hear his ragged breathing as well as the rapid thump of his heart as she rested her head on his chest under his chin. She pulled back and looked up. There was a dazed expression on Sherlock's face followed by a fleeting expression of surprise and puzzlement.

"Ah, that was," he said and paused for a moment, searching for a word. "Interesting," he managed at last. Molly frowned and Sherlock hastened to say, "That was nice."

Nice? Nice? Resentment burned in Molly. The man had just melted the soles of her shoes to the floor and he thought it was nice? Her frown deepened.

"Well, perhaps more than nice," Sherlock reluctantly admitted. He gave Molly that '_further_ _data is needed'_ look as she flushed with embarrassment.

"A bit unexpected," he murmured, "but very good."

She didn't think she was supposed to hear that.


	2. After The Fall

**Time Frame:** Three weeks after Reichenbach.

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who left comments, you are a great encouragement. Special note to _FangFan, _thanks for the suggestion about one of the scenes in this chapter, you'll know which one.

Chapter Two

After the Fall

"Oh God, no!" Molly screamed. Sherlock was falling. He was going to miss the safety padding. His body slowed down and he seemed to fall forever in slow motion. Molly could see the terror on his face as he realized his mistake. His body made a loud sickening crunch as it slammed the pavement. Blood and brain matter lay everywhere. Enough viscera for ten bodies. Molly shrank back in horror; Sherlock's dead eyes stared straight up into her own. His dead bloody lips parted and said in a broken whisper that only Molly could hear, "Why did you help me? Now I'm dead!"

"Molly, Molly, wake up!"

Molly felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder. Shuddering, she slowly sat up on the sofa. Sherlock moved to the fridge, poured a glass of milk, and heated it in the small microwave unit. Crossing back to Molly, he silently handed her the glass and sat beside her on the small couch. There wasn't much room; the seat was barely wider than an armchair. Her tiny flat wouldn't accommodate a normal sized one. Their shoulders touched as Molly leaned her head against the back and slowly sipped her drink.

"Falling again?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," she replied.

Sherlock did not ask for details and Molly did not give any. How he knew about the falling part of her dreams she had no clue, unless she did more than just scream aloud. Molly didn't want to think about it. In the three weeks since Sherlock's fall from the roof of Bart's hospital, Molly had been plagued with nightmares.

They sat in comfortable silence until she finished the milk. Standing, Sherlock took the glass back to the kitchen. He paused at the doorway. "Better now?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

Crossing to the bedroom, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him. Molly curled back on the sofa, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and thought about the events of that day three weeks ago.

**ɸ**

Molly had stayed in her office the day that Sherlock fell. When his 'body' was wheeled into the morgue, she nearly panicked. Sherlock wasn't moving. His face and neck had been covered with blood to discourage using his carotid artery for checking a pulse.

"He's fine," the fake orderly said in a low voice, "He's just a little dazed. Damnedest thing I ever saw," he said in admiration.

"Sherlock, are you okay? How do you feel?" Molly asked as she quickly shone a light into his eyes to check his pupils. "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere." Sherlock groaned, "I think I cracked a couple of ribs."

"You're lucky you didn't crack your head," Molly said severely.

"Yes, that would have been most unfortunate."

"Do you think you can walk now? We need to get you out of the main room."

Sherlock nodded as he stood he removed the racket balls from his armpits. They had very effectively stopped the circulation and hid a pulse from anyone checking his wrists. As he slowly took his first step pain shot up his right leg.

"Sprained ankle," he gasped.

With Molly's support, he limped painfully across to a small supply room she had prepared. Behind them, the orderly moved the cadaver, dressed it in Sherlock's coat, and placed it onto the bloody gurney. Next he began pouring blood over the face and neck.

As Molly glanced back, Sherlock said, "Don't worry. It will work. It was most opportune that the body landed on its head when we dropped it from the roof last night. Even Mycroft would have trouble recognizing me."

For the next few minutes Molly helped Sherlock clean up. The hardest part was getting the blood out of his hair. Soon, with his ribs taped and dressed in spare hospital scrubs, he was more comfortable. When Molly placed a blanket around his shoulders he complained in an irritated voice that was much stronger.

"Shock blanket. It figures - why does everyone always assume I need a shock blanket?"

Molly rolled her eyes as she left the room with the pan of bloody water. "Someone is feeling better," she thought to herself. "He's back to being obnoxious."

When she returned with two cups of tea and some biscuits, Sherlock was limping back and forth, the orange blanket trailing off one shoulder and dragging across the floor behind him.

"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock announced. "He was on the roof with me. He told me that John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be killed if I didn't jump and then he pulled out a gun and shot himself."

"That's good, isn't it?" she asked, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted, "It was just too easy. Moriarty is clever - very clever. All along he tried to make me think he was crazy. Maybe he was, but something doesn't feel right."

"Miss Hooper," the fake orderly stood in the doorway, "Detective Inspector Lestrade is here and wants to speak with you."

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment."

The orderly nodded and left. Molly reached into her pocket and removed a small squeeze bottle. She carefully placed two drops in each eye. The burning solution reddened her eyes slightly and tears formed and slid down her cheeks. Molly looked at Sherlock.

"Looks good. You'll do fine."

Molly nodded, unconsciously stood straighter and left to face Lestrade. She was really in for it now. Lying to the police was a serious offense.

"And faking a death is not?" she asked herself scornfully. "Get on with it."

Lestrade was in the next room; beside him was a tall man Molly had seen once before. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother.

"I'm so sorry Molly," Lestrade said.

"He's over here," she said and led them over to the gurney. Grasping it by a corner, she gently pulled back the sheet that covered the fake Sherlock.

"Dear God," Lestrade moaned, "you never get used to it. Especially if it's a friend."

Mycroft stood beside Lestrade, looking at the body without showing emotion. Lestrade glanced at him. Mycroft nodded his head and abruptly turned to leave. As he moved past Molly, she thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face. Guilt? What was Mycroft feeling guilty about?

"Are you going to have someone else do the autopsy?" Leastrade asked.

Molly shook her head. "No, it's the last thing I'll ever be able to do for him. I'll make sure he receives the dignity he deserves."

Lestrade nodded.

"Have you seen John yet?" she asked.

"Yes, they sedated him after we talked. What a mess!" Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Molly looked at Lestrade, swallowed, and then asked cautiously, "Did you find anything on the roof that might tell us why . . . ?"

Lestrade squeezed Molly's arm gently and shook his head. "The only thing on the roof was his mobile; John was talking to him at the time. Nobody pushed him. I'm so sorry, but the fact is - Sherlock jumped."

"I know," Molly said. "I was just trying to understand why this happened. Sherlock is not a fake!" she said defiantly.

Lestrade had just smiled sadly and left to file his reports.

**ɸ**

On the sofa, Molly turned trying to get comfortable. She struggled to focus on happier thoughts but sleep was long in coming.

When she awoke the next morning, Sherlock was gone. There was a note on the table that said:

"Be back late. Don't feed cat tuna. SH"

The glass that had been used for milk had been washed. The bed was made. Sherlock's few items of clothing were folded neatly on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. Really, the man was a model house guest. That being said, Sherlock was still Sherlock. Sometimes Molly came home from work and found the oddest things in the bin. What had he been doing with four tampons, a bottle of olive oil and a dead mouse? Yesterday it contained a plastic bag of blood, a tiny pump and some tubing. She shuddered, she really didn't want to know but she wondered if it was his blood. At least he cleaned up after himself.

Molly headed off to work, bleary eyed. If the nightmares didn't stop soon she was going to fall asleep in the middle of an autopsy. What she needed was to focus on something other than problems.

After work, she struggled to keep her attention on her martial arts workout. She performed so poorly her opponent asked if something was the matter. Later as she headed back to her flat, she decided that perhaps she should take something to help her sleep if things didn't improve soon.

Molly opened the door to her flat and was met by a very irritated Toby. Her grey striped cat had a decidedly snotty attitude about not being fed on time. Molly opened a tin of cat food and placed it on the floor beside the water dish. Too late, she realized it was tuna flavored. Oh well, whatever aversion Sherlock had about tuna, he would have to put up with it one more time.

Sherlock had still not returned. Molly wasn't worried. He was often out late meeting with his homeless network and running down leads about the location of Moriarty's men.

She decided a hot shower was in order. Maybe she could sleep all the way through tonight without nightmares. After the shower, Molly slipped into the bedroom to get a pair of pajamas. She quickly chose the Betty Boop bottoms and a skinny black tee shirt. As she dressed Molly smiled. Many people considered Betty Boop to be a floozy. Molly preferred to think of her as one of the first liberated women with an independent mind.

He seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute the doorway to the bedroom was clear the next it was filled with the menacing form. It wasn't Sherlock. This man was not as tall and was much heavier. His scraggly beard and moustache hung greasily onto his chest. The eye patch gave his remaining eye a sinister glow. With a lecherous snarl he reached for Molly. Molly began to panic, and then all the months of practice took over. She grabbed his right wrist with her hand, fired her elbow above her head and downward into the bastard's nose. At the same time her left hand fist punched his groin. Her attacker bellowed a loud noise that ended a decidedly higher pitch. She swung her arm in a large circle pushing her opponent's arm, forcing it to lock and cause his body to bend double.

Suddenly everything changed. Molly felt her body arc into the air and slam onto the floor. She rolled smoothly to her feet only to be flipped through the air again. Every kick, every punch was blocked. When she landed on her back the third time her attacked rolled on top of her and pinned her to the floor beneath him.

"Don't panic," Molly tried to tell herself. "If I can move my head a little I can bite his nose." She suddenly realized her adversary was no longer attacking. In fact, he was laughing. Molly looked into his face and saw that half of his beard was hanging loose from his face and the eye patch was over his nose.

"Sherlock Holmes! What in the hell do you think you are doing?" Molly yelled. "And why are you dressed like a bloody pirate?"

Sherlock rolled off Molly and lay on his back gasping and laughing. "I wanted to see how well you could protect yourself. You're fairly good for a beginner," he generously admitted. "I could show you a few moves that would make you better."

Lying beside him Molly flushed. Surely he didn't mean that the way he sounded. "Not tonight you won't," she said flatly as she got to her feet. "Don't you dare do that again!" She slammed the door as she left.

Sherlock lay in the darkened room and smiled. "That had gone well." He wasn't worried about Molly's anger. She always forgave him. He idly wondered if he could interest her in how to handle a cutlass?

That night Molly's dreams had nothing to do with nightmares.


	3. Relationships

Chapter Three - Relationships

Who could have known that Molly's cat Toby and Sherlock would form a bond? Toby was not your usual housecat. Molly had rescued him several years before and nursed him back to health. He was a survivor. He had thrived in the dark alleys of London, but not without scars. With his mangled left ear and a limp in his right leg, Toby wouldn't earn any prizes for beauty. He was king of all he surveyed and that included Molly Hooper. He was fiercely protective of her. She often joked to visitors that she needed a sign that read, "**Beware Of Attack Cat.**"

The day Toby met Sherlock, the two faced each other just like a pair of gunslingers in a shootout. Sherlock stared at Toby. Toby stared at Sherlock. It was obvious they were sizing each other up.

"Here it comes," Molly thought. Usually at this point Toby would show visitors his true character by arching his back, extending his claws, and hissing in a truly frightening manner. To Molly's surprise, this time Toby simply turned his back on Sherlock and began washing his paws.

Sherlock and Toby totally ignored each other for a week. Then the cat started following Sherlock everywhere he went. Molly thought it was hilarious that it even sat outside the door meowing plaintively when Sherlock took a shower. Even funnier was when the door swung open enough for the cat to enter.

That was about that time mice started showing up in the bin. "What on earth is going on?" Molly had thought when she saw a third mouse there in a period of just a few days. After the sixth, she could stand it no longer. "What's with the mice?" she asked, disgustedly dangling the latest specimen by it's tail.

Sherlock looked up from the laptop and pointed in Toby's direction. "Presents," he said, "he leaves them on my pillow for me."

"Oh."

Molly didn't know whether to be horrified at the thought of having mice, or to laugh at the thought of Sherlock waking up to beady little mouse eyes staring at him. She felt like she no longer owned a cat. She was tolerated; after all she was needed to feed and change the litter. In all other things, Molly might as well have been invisible as far as Toby was concerned.

Toby's final act of desertion was the day Molly came out of the kitchen area and found Sherlock sitting in the armchair staring into space as he frequently did when in deep thought. Toby sat on his lap purring loud enough to be heard across the room. Sherlock absently stroked the cat's fur with his long fingers in much the same way he used to stroke his violin.

"You traitor," Molly said to the cat, "you're supposed only let me pet you."

Toby simply opened his eyes and stared at her with a look that seemed to say, "He needs me more than you do."

ɸ

Molly loved chocolate. Two months earlier she had discovered a new dark chocolate from Belgium. It came in small squares wrapped in gold foil with the name _Seduction _embossed on the top. It was ridiculously expensive.

Molly considered herself to be a connoisseur of all things chocolate. In her opinion, Seduction Chocolate was the best she had ever tasted and worth the price. She took to carrying some of it around with her wherever she went. She kept some in a small bowl on the kitchen table, in her purse, and even in the pocket of her lab coat. One could not have too much chocolate.

Seduction Chocolate melted on her tongue in silky perfection at the same time releasing a pleasing aroma that blended seamlessly with the taste, enhancing the total experience. The aftertaste hinted of hazelnuts and raspberry. It was chocolate ecstasy. Molly sighed blissfully.

"You're going to put on weight if you continue to consume chocolate at that rate," Sherlock observed. "There are some advantages I admit. For instance, the release of endorphins to the brain creates feelings of euphoria. Serotonin is also increased, fostering mood lifts and relaxation. And of course menstruating women often benefit from the high iron . . ."

"Sherlock," Molly snapped in irritation, "shut up!"

The look on Sherlock's face was so comical Molly wondered why she had not tried yelling before. "Try one," she said, holding out a piece of chocolate.

Sherlock quickly recovered and simply waved his right hand in a dismissive wave. "Chocolate is boring."

"Not this chocolate, try one," she repeated, "I dare you to say it's not good."

Sherlock considered, then took the offered sweet, carefully removed the golden foil, and popped it in his mouth.

"Well?"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. Molly could almost see him deciding whether to tell the truth or not. "Its good," he reluctantly admitted.

"Ha!" crowed Molly, "I told you so!"

"That doesn't change your weight problem."

"I don't have a weight problem," Molly said acidly. "Besides, I already thought about it. I'll just increase my daily workout by twenty minutes. That should be enough to cover four or five chocolates."

"You could use the time to practice some techniques I could show you. If you dare."

"All right," Molly agreed. She wasn't about to let Sherlock see her back down from anything, but she couldn't help wondering what she was getting herself into.

So began what was to become an almost nightly ritual. Sherlock was a fairly patient teacher. Oh, he was snarky enough if he thought she wasn't trying her best, but he was willing to patiently go over anything she was having difficulty with. It was amazing how quickly she improved. Some of the things Sherlock taught her were not very nice. It was no holds barred street fighting. Dirty, dangerous, and Molly loved it.

"You don't have time to follow rules or worry about being fair when your life is in danger," Sherlock had said.

Molly learned to observe Sherlock carefully. More and more she was able to anticipate his next move. The first time she was able to flip Sherlock into the air and pin him to he floor she was so excited she ran around the flat whooping and yelling so loud Toby ran to the bedroom and hid under the bed. Molly was too busy celebrating to notice the intense look of longing that covered Sherlock's face. It was gone in a moment and when Molly turned, it was to see a smiling, congratulating Sherlock.

Soon afterwards, Sherlock's work began to draw him away. Many nights he did not return to the flat. When he did return he was always disguised. His hair was cut short in a nondescript style that did not draw attention as his longer hair would have. The disguises were not cheesy affairs like his pirate costume had been; they were professional quality.

Sherlock explained that things were getting more dangerous. There were rumors of Moriarty everywhere. The disguises helped keep Moriarty's men from tracking him back to Molly. More often than not, Sherlock came back bruised or wounded. The worst had been a knife slash that required fifteen stitches.

One morning Sherlock pushed Molly's laptop around so the she could see. The screen showed the London news headlines for the day. Third on the list was :__**"Scotland Yard Discovers New Lead in Bank Scandal Case."**

Molly leaned around the cereal box and read the article.

"One of yours?" Molly asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Someone in my network provided them with videos of Moriarty's men at work. It only took three tries to get the Yard interested," Sherlock added sarcastically. "I thought we were going to have to hit them over their heads before they picked up on what was going on."

"Well, they can't all be as smart as Lestrade," Molly said reasonably.

Sherlock ignored Molly's implication that Lestrade might have some intelligence. He snorted, "You'd think as many leads as we have given them, they would have connected the dots by now. If they could see the pattern - if they realized that everything points to Moriarty's schemes - they could take over and I could go after bigger fish. Now, if that's not bad enough, Mycroft is sticking his nose into our business. Twice, we have almost been caught." Sherlock closed the lid of the laptop with a snap and leaned back in the chair with a sigh of frustration.

"But you are both on the same side. Can't you get him to help you?"'

"Mycroft is on Mycroft's side."

"But he's your brother!" Molly exclaimed.

Sherlock answered with another derisive snort. "Moriarty is out there. I keep hearing rumors, but nothing I can track down."

"Sherlock," Molly hesitated, then continued, "your homeless network is doing a great job, but don't you need someone you can really depend on? Have you thought about contacting John? You could use his help and he could cover your back."

"No," Sherlock said with a tone of finality, "John is safe. I'll not put him in harms way again."

"He deserves to know the truth."

"He deserves to be alive!" Sherlock snapped.

Molly winced, he was always like this when she tried talk about John. "I know why you needed to protect him and the others and why you had to jump. But there is no reason that he shouldn't know now that you are alive."

"There is every reason. I won't let John risk his life for me. I would die if something happened to him because I asked him to help me. I care for him too much for that." The words seemed to burst out on their own. Sherlock glared wildly at Molly.

"It's difficult to explain. It's not about girlfriends, or boyfriends, or sex." He placed scornful emphasis on the word sex. " It's much deeper, not easily defined. I look at others around me, little people going about their boring lives. I watch their casual relationships begin and end, and wonder how they can live such shallow lives when what I feel is so deep, so rock solid, it hurts."

"As if your souls were connected," Molly said softly, "I'm not talking about sex either." Molly hastily said after looking at the expression on Sherlock's face.

Molly stood up, moved behind his chair, and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Not everyone is able to feel so deeply, Sherlock. It's a gift and a curse. Caring so deep is a rare thing. Even more rare if it is returned by the other person. Such love cannot be selfish. Selfishness changes into obsession. You can't put John on a shelf to keep him safe. You can only allow him to choose for himself. Sometimes it turns out the way you want, and sometimes it is the most painful experience you have ever known."

Sherlock turned and stared intently at her, Molly realized that he understood that she was talking about more than his relationship to John; that she was speaking of their relationship as well.

Molly picked up her coat and purse. "I'm going for a walk. Think about it." Molly walked to the door and quietly closed it after her.

Sherlock sat very still. For a long time not a muscle moved. Suddenly he stood and walked quickly to the bedroom and began to pack.

ɸ

Molly heard nothing from Sherlock for over a week. Then one day she received a text message that read:

**Going to France. Will be some time away. SH **

Three days later a package was delivered to Bart's. Inside was a beautifully wrapped box of Seduction Chocolates. The enclosed note said:

**Sorry. SH**

Molly stared at the note. Sherlock never apologized. Not for anything. What was he sorry for? For leaving? For not telling John he was alive? For the tangled mess of their relationship? Molly wasn't sure. She held the note tightly and laughed. Then she cried. The Chocolates lay on the desk unnoticed.

ɸ

Molly decided something had to be done about John. It was over four months since "the fall." Sherlock was in France, and John was here, still grieving. Molly wouldn't betray Sherlock's confidences, but she had to find a way to help John.

From Mike Stanford, Molly learned that John often sat in the park across from the clinic at lunchtime. For three days she haunted the park until she finally spotted John sitting on a bench overlooking a small duck pond.

"Hello John, may I join you?" Molly handed him a cup of coffee and took John's silence to mean yes. She sat down and sipped her coffee in silence.

"What do you want, Molly?" John asked at last. If you want to talk about him...I can't."

"I just want to be near someone who cares about him too. I need that right now. Is it okay if we just sit together for a while?"

John looked at her curiously. "You speak of him in the present tense. As if he is still here."

"He is for me," Molly answered simply.

John nodded. He didn't understand, but he accepted her answer. They sat quietly watching the people walk past them. When Molly gathered her things preparing to leave, John stood up with her and placed his hand on her arm.

"Molly, how can you do it? You loved him. How can you be so calm?"

Molly looked into John's pain filled eyes. She thought of her empty flat. How she might never see Sherlock again. "I feel pain John, I feel it in every breath, but I can choose how I think of him. I have a choice John. Sherlock is more than one horrible day on the top of Bart's. Choose to think about all the good things, the best times." Molly stepped closer and gave John a fierce hug. "Thank you so much."

John grabbed her hand as she turned to leave. "Could we do this again?" he asked.

"I'd like that John."

"Same place next week?"

Molly smiled and nodded. As he watched her walk away, something changed inside him. It was a very small change. Dr. John Watson's heart began to heal.


	4. Dark Movements

Chapter Four - Dark Movements

James Moriarty removed the toothpick from his mouth and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb. He replaced it between his teeth and leaned back in the office chair. He glanced around the spacious offices of J.M. Enterprises and scowled in dissatisfaction. Though his present quarters were adequate, they were just not up to his usual standards. This was the third time in six months he had moved the headquarters for his nefarious operations. Each time he had been barely ahead of the authorities. Moriarty again plucked the toothpick from his mouth and angrily threw it in the bin. At first, he had not given a thought about who was behind the failure of some of his most profitable operations. Rival groups were always on the lookout for a takeover. But with each attack it became more and more obvious who was behind it all. Someone was targeting operations that had aided him in framing Sherlock. At first he thought of Mycroft Holmes; some of the actions could defiantly be laid at that sneaky bastard's feet. But there were other things that fit a far different pattern. Moriarty had played cat and mouse games with Sherlock Holmes too often not to recognize his work. Only this time he was the mouse and Holmes was playing a very successful cat. Somehow Sherlock had managed to fake his fall from the rooftop at Bart's. Moriarty was convinced of that. He knew it was entirely possible, after all he had faked his own death. Sherlock was clever and could easily have done the same. The playing field had been Sherlock's choice and, to some extent, even the time frame had been in his control. Moriarty thought about what he had seen from the rooftop that day and how he himself would have staged it. Oh yes, Sherlock was very, very clever.

About a month ago he had begun hearing rumors about a master mind operating in London using a select group of homeless street dwellers. This group was not the usual druggies, mentally disturbed or luckless victims of societal fallout, but rather a disenfranchised counterculture of people who lived on the streets by choice. Working under the government radar and unknown to authorities, this group had been systematically destroying Moriarty's influence in the criminal realm. It had to be stopped and stopped quickly.

Yesterday had brought a breakthrough. His men had captured one of the peripheral people that worked with this group. He would soon know more about what was going on.

A discreet knock sounded and Patrick, his secretary, slipped into the room. "Denton is here sir, he's ready to make his report."

"Send him in."

Patrick nodded and held the door open for a medium height, slightly overweight man to enter. John Denton looked nervously about the room, crossed the intervening space and stood in front of Moriarty's desk.

"Well?" Moriarty barked. Lately he been more on edge. He didn't bother with the niceties of offering a seat or refreshment. "What did you find out?"

"Err, I'm afraid not very much sir," Denton answered in a Midwestern American accent. He winced at Moriarty's deepening frown. "I'm afraid the man is dead sir."

"What?" Moriarty shouted. He glared at Denton, stood up reached across the desk and grabbed the man's lapels, pulling him across until their noses almost touched. "Why in hell did you let that happen?"

"It wasn't on purpose sir. He just up and died on us. How were we to know he had a weak heart?" The man's nasal twang whined. It grated on Moriarty's nerves. "He just shit his pants and keeled over dead. We hadn't even messed him up much."

"Did you at least learn where Holmes is?"

The man gave a shake of his head and grunted as Moriarty's hands released and roughly shoved Denton away from him. "Did you get any information at all out of him?" he asked.

"We did find out that for the last three months the leader has been moving around a lot and changing his looks. Before that he was shacked up with some bimbo."

Jim Moriarty moved around the desk until he was standing directly behind Denton. "Some bimbo, some bimbo," he repeated the words as if tasting them. The man's vocabulary was appalling even for a American. "Is that all?" He growled.

"I'm afraid so sir." Denton continued to face forward even as Moriarty stepped up close behind him.

Moriarty felt his rage peak. This stupid git had cost him valuable time with his bungling. He reached up and grasped Denton's head under the chin, turned it in a sharp snap up and to the right. The neck made a satisfying crunch as the vertebrae separated.

"Your report has been duly noted." Moriarty said as he walked from the room. Denton's lifeless body slumped to the floor. Moriarty casually waved to Patrick, standing nervously in the room outside.

"Take care of the mess and get me Wannaka. Tell him I want him here in ten minutes or he's dead."

**ɸ**

Mycroft leaned back in the comfortable leather chair in the gathering room of the Diogenes Club. Steepling his hands under his chin, he frowned thoughtfully. Most of the chairs in the room were occupied, but silence was broken only by the faint rustlings of turning newspapers. The serene atmosphere here usually soothed him, but today troublesome thoughts kept him unsettled. Mycroft was in a reflective mood. His thoughts tuned to the past.

Most people stumble through life without giving much thought to destiny and order. All of his life, Mycroft had known what life had in store for him. To him, the Homes obligation was most important. He thought of Sherlock and about how different things had been for his brother. How had it gotten so out of control? Mycroft felt old.

For two hundred and fifty years a Holmes was at His or Her Majesties secret service. Always working behind the scenes, the Holmes operatives were among the most influential in recent British history. It was a matter of some pride that Mycroft's father Vincent had groomed his eldest son for the position he would someday hold. When that time came, Mycroft smoothly stepped up and began his career in the "Holmes business."

Mycroft excelled in the British intelligence community. He was particularly accomplished in the areas of planning and strategy. His ruthlessness and daring earned him the nickname of "The Iceman" by his opponents. If something needed doing, Mycroft Holmes could be counted on to see that it was done properly.

Mycroft took pride in his job. It had pained him greatly to have to deal with his little brother's rebellious ways. Sherlock was an embarrassment that Mycroft greatly wished would change. Born seven years after Mycroft, to a mother who was barely still in child bearing range, Sherlock had been an inconvenient arrival. Marie Vernet Holmes had casually passed the infant to a succession of nannies and tutors. It wasn't that she didn't love her youngest son, it was just that she was so busy. There were so many functions to attend and committees to supervise. Sherlock had adored Mummy. It was a pity that she had so little time to give him.

Mycroft could hardly remember Sherlock as a boy. He was only home during school holidays and thought of Sherlock as the child who lived with Mummy and Father. He was a whiney child, perpetually getting on everyone's nerves. His parents ignored Sherlock's complaints of unjust treatment by the staff. At least until there had been that unfortunate situation with the tutor. The tutor had been taken care of, but not before he had caused some considerable damage to Sherlock's emotional health. Mycroft suspected Sherlock's aversion to neckties was a result of that very event. Father had not been unduly concerned. These things happened in the best of families. His only comment was to the effect that Sherlock should be a little man and stop complaining. Mycroft had gone back to school without a further thought.

Sherlock had been bundled away to live with Grand mere Vernet in France. Mycroft conceded that Grand mere was probably Sherlock's salvation. For the first time he had received the love and attention he craved. He had been such a needy child. Grand mere absolutely doted on him. She introduced him to the violin and taught him to appreciate the arts. Her love was unconditional and Sherlock had thrived. Mummy had received detailed reports of his progress. From the ages of seven to twelve, Sherlock bloomed and honed his keen intellect. When Grand mere had reported that Sherlock had taken up shadowing the groundskeeper from morning to night, Mummy was concerned. But she had been reassured. Clever Grand mere, knowing of Sherlock's aversion to tutors, had hired Paul Sargon to pose has her gardener and to befriend Sherlock. From the grounds keeper, Sherlock was introduced to the power of observation and deduction. Often, the two could be seen together crouching over one plant or another discussing its medicinal properties. It was the closest thing Sherlock was to know as a father figure. But all things come to an end, and when Sherlock was barely twelve Grand mere died. Sherlock returned to the Holmes estate. By that time Father had passed on and Mother was increasingly remaining in her rooms. It was up to Mycroft to provide discipline and instruction to his increasingly rebellious brother. It had not gone well. To put it bluntly, Sherlock had been hell to deal with. In university he added drugs to the increasing list of his shortcomings. Mycroft was constantly having to bail Sherlock out of one scrape or another. He had been determined to do the opposite of anything Mycroft wanted.

The latest rebellion had been a few years ago when Sherlock had not seen any reason to continue the tradition of Holmes family service in government. It was most annoying.

At age thirty-five, Mycroft had decided to marry. This too was about family and tradition. He needed to be young enough to groom a son for service. He chose a girl from a good family and set about courting her. Always one for details, Mycroft felt it was only fair that he have a physical exam himself before requesting his bride-to-be do likewise. He was very disturbed to find that he was sterile. Ending the relationship had not been difficult, he had been more upset about the child that would never be. But there was a practical solution. As in the case of royalty, the Holmes family had a heir and a spare. It was time for the spare to do his duty. Mycroft set about accomplishing the deed. Sherlock, however, had other ideas. No amount of pleading or logic could sway him. In fact, Sherlock discontinued his limited association with the opposite sex, claiming he was bored with women. It all added up to spite. Up until the day of Sherlock's death, Mycroft had entertained hopes of someday changing his mind. Now tradition and service would end. Mycroft was sad.

The whole wretched affair involving Moriarty was partially his fault he admitted to himself. Mycroft shifted in his chair as he turned his thoughts to more recent events of the past few months. He acknowledged that something was seriously amiss. Events were occurring that were out of his control. He did not like that. Sometimes when his men moved into a situation, it was to find the targets bound and gagged, waiting to be taken away. Or as in the case of today's incident, the papers were leaked information that caused certain dodgy businesses to collapse. No, he did not like it one bit. This had been going on for several months. It was as if a vigilante had gained enough power and influence to take all these people down. Mycroft didn't believe in Batman. How had this happened right under his nose? This was the work of professionals no doubt, but who? It irked Mycroft.

An assistant with specially muffled footwear silently appeared beside him and offered a silver tray containing a large white envelope. Mycroft picked the letter opener from the tray and slit the top of the letter open. Nodding his thanks, he replaced the opener onto the tray and watched the assistant glide silently away.

Unfolding the crisp white paper he read silently, frowning in agitation. It had happened again. Scotland Yard had mysteriously received information proving a well known bank's involvement in money laundering and fraud. This was the bank which Sherlock had once mentioned was connected to Jim Moriarty's complex web of criminal activities. Whoever these people were, they were targeting Moriarty's operations. After Sherlock's death he had determined to rid the world of Moriarty and his associates. Now someone was beating him to the punch.

A growing suspicion solidified as Mycroft tilted forward in the chair. The motives were there, the style was right, and even the arrogance of not including Mycroft fit. He was reminded of one of father's favorite axioms, "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." It had to be. The evidence was conclusive, Sherlock was alive! A tiny smile touched the corner of one side of Mycroft's mouth. "Baby brother," he thought, "you've surpassed yourself this time." Mycroft pocked the report, lay his folded newspaper on the table beside his chair, stood, and walked to the door. Outside, he retrieved his mobile from a pocket and summoned Anthea. He had calls to make. Mycroft was a man of immense power. If Sherlock was behind all this, he would find out.


	5. Friends and Enemies

Chapter Five - Friends and Enemies

John stood up from the small table as Molly entered the cafe. She moved to the table in front of the large window that overlooked the busy street outside. Molly gave John a hug and a modest kiss on his cheek before sitting down.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," she apologized, "I've been running behind all day today."

"Problems?" John asked.

"Not really, just hectic," she explained. "It's been so busy everyone is pulling double shifts. We've done three autopsies this morning already and there are two more scheduled for this afternoon."

"Murder and mayhem rampant in London?"

"It certainly seems so," Molly agreed. "Most of them are routine, if you can call murder or suspicious deaths routine. The last autopsy was a little strange though."

As she recounted the mysterious items found in the dead man's stomach, John wondered how did one swallow three feet of metal chain with a dog collar attached, six wristwatches, and four silver spoons?

"Why do you suppose he swallowed them?" Molly asked.

"I don't know. It makes you wonder what he did with the dog, doesn't it?" John grinned.

"It has everyone befuddled," Molly said. "This is the kind of thing Sherlock was best at solving. He would have taken one look at the man and known why and how everything happened."

John wondered if Molly had realized she had spoken of Sherlock in past tense for the first time. Molly's voice trailed off and faltered. "Oh God, I thought I was past this sort of thing," she said. "I go for days with everything running smoothly, and then something pops up to remind me of him and I start to hurt all over again." A single tear trickled down her cheek.

"John, I'm losing him. I can't remember his voice," Molly said, sounding a little panicked. "Oh, I can still hear it, but it's like an echo instead of how it really was. And his laugh, oh God, I don't ever want to forget his laugh."

John reached across the table and grasped Molly's hands in his own. Her fingers were like ice. He rubbed his thumbs back and forth. Realizing that this time he was the stronger of the two, he gently squeezed her hands and said, "You won't forget Molly. At least not the important things."

"It changes," he continued. "Everything gets blurry. That's life, Molly. It's how we cope, but it doesn't mean we love him any less."

Molly nodded sadly.

The arrival of the waiter with their order shifted their attention. Neither noticed the tall elderly man across the street turn and walk away, blending into the crowd.

Sherlock was not quite sure why he had come to watch John and Molly today. That part of his life was over. It was just that sometimes he had to remind himself of that fact. They looked good. John had put on a little weight; his form was back to his trim military days. Oddly, Molly appeared to have lost weight. She didn't really have a weight problem; there was no need for her to be so slim. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he glanced at the photos he had taken on his mobile. The first was one of John and Molly's hug as they greeted one another. John was smiling. Sherlock couldn't see Molly's face in the photo as it was on the other side of John's, but he remembered her smile as they pulled away and seated themselves. The second photo was of John holding hands with Molly across the small table. It was all very intense and romantic looking. Sherlock immediately dismissed that last thought. There was not enough data to conclude that they were dating. It was the perfect solution though, he told himself. It would be a good thing if his friends found love and comfort in one another. But something about it bothered him. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he felt slightly irritated.

Molly looked at John over her cranberry chicken salad. "How did your date with Harry's friend go?" she asked.

John grinned. "Surprisingly very well. It was her friend's little sister." he clarified. "I was a little put out when Harry told me she had set me up with one of her school chum's relatives. You have no idea what Harry's friends were like back then. I fully expected to be going out with anything from an eighties punk rocker to a goth vampire. As it turns out, Mary is really great. She's nice, pretty, and very intelligent. She even laughs at my jokes," John smiled.

Molly chuckled. "Well if she thinks your jokes are funny it proves how intelligent she is. I take it you are seeing her again?"

"Tonight in fact," John said happily. "I think maybe she is going to be kind of special."

"You can tell after only one date?"

"Yes, I can," John said with surprising certainty in his voice. "You know how it is. How long did it take for you to fall for Sherlock?" He winced as he realized he had brought the subject of conversation back to Sherlock again. _Idiot_ he told himself.

"Oh, positively ages," Molly began then corrected herself. "Alright, about five seconds," she admitted.

"Sometimes you just know."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Molly asked quietly, "John, are you sure Sherlock didn't say something that day you might have missed? Are you sure he was alone on the rooftop? How about his mobile, did you ever look at it? He might have left something on it for you."

John shook his head. He decided to answer her last question. "Mycroft has his phone. I've not seen it but Lestrade went over it thoroughly. Molly, we've been over this before. Why are you asking this again?"

"I don't know," she lied. Molly glanced at her wristwatch. "Oh gosh," she said, "I've got to get back. Stay and finish your lunch," she said as John moved to stand. "Thank you, John. You don't know how much your words meant to me today."

As Molly hurried out the door, John settled back at the table. He doubted if he had helped Molly. All he seemed to be able to do today was bring up memories that hurt. He thought about her last question. Could there be something on the mobile phone? Sherlock had sent him away on a wild goose chase that day. He had not meant for John to see him jump. He had told him the phone was his note. John stood up. He needed to talk to Mycroft.

**ɸ**

Jim Moriarty was upset. Sherlock was alive and he couldn't get his hands on him. The man was like an eel. Twice in the past two days he had thought he had him cornered only to find him gone. Moriarty cracked his knuckles one by one thoughtfully. What he needed was leverage, something to draw Holmes out into the open long enough to get him.

Not John Watson, Moriarty decided. He had John watched since the death of Sherlock. Watson was still going around like a sick puppy. Sherlock had made no attempt to contact him that Moriarty could see. Evidently Holmes had used the fall as an opportunity for breaking up the relationship. Poor John, to be cast aside so cavalierly, and for a woman no less! The thought of Sherlock living with a woman was disturbing. Jim had watched and researched Sherlock for several years. There had never been any indication that he was attracted to any woman in all that time except for Irene Adler and Jim had been involved in that. No, it was a complete mystery whom the lady friend might be. The only other women Sherlock had regular contact with was Mrs. Hudson his landlady and . . . Molly Hooper.

Molly Hooper! She was such a mousey little thing. Insignificant except when she could be used to reach a goal. Moriarty had briefly done that to gain access to an unsuspecting Sherlock some time ago. Jim could hardly remember what Molly looked like. She was just so ordinary. Well, there was no accounting for taste. Evidently Sherlock had used Dr. Hooper to help him fake his death. He should have thought of it before now. Moriarty smiled, it wasn't a particularly nice smile.

"Well Dr. Mouse," he said aloud, "I think I'll pay your flat a little visit today and see what I can find out about your ex-houseguest."

If he found evidence that Molly and Sherlock had been together, he would have Molly kidnapped even though it would draw the authorities attention to him. He had to get to Holmes. If Molly didn't know how to contact Sherlock, he could still use her to draw him out. If that failed, he would try John. He must get to Sherlock.

**ɸ**

Later that day, Moriarty stood in front of the door to Molly's flat. He had just finished picking the lock when the door across the hallway opened. He quickly pocketed the pick and plastered a smile on his face.

"Is there something you want?" The old lady's voice was rough and gravely from years of smoking. She stood in her doorway, a half smoked cigarette dangling from one corner of her mouth.

"Oh, hello there," Jim crossed the hallway and offered his hand to the old lady. "You must be Mrs. Duncan,

Dr. Hooper's neighbor. She has told me so much about you." Thank God he had memorized all the tenant's names from the directory downstairs.

Mrs. Duncan tilted her head and reached up with her left hand. Pulling a tiny hearing aid from her ear, she pecked at it with her fingernail. "Bloody thing goes through batteries like water. You're going to have to speak up." Placing the defective device back in her ear, she looked at him suspiciously.

"I'm Dr. Hooper's assistant," Jim gushed a bit louder, "I'm here to pick up some papers she forgot." Hearing a distinctive sound from the partially open doorway behind him he added. "And to feed and water her cat. Dr. Hooper is being called away on unexpected business. You know how she worries about it."

The suspicion disappeared from the old lady's face and was replaced with a smile. "Oh yes," she agreed. "That's all right then. Tell her not to worry about Toby," she continued. "I have a key and he likes me," she said significantly. "I'll make sure he has everything he needs." She eyed Moriarty up and down appreciatively. "You seem like a nice young man." She patted his arm, then removed her cigarette flicked the ash onto the floor and replaced it in her mouth with the practiced motion of a life-long smoker. "When I saw you standing out here I thought maybe, with all the comings of the past few months, it was starting up again."

Jim placed a politely interested look on his face. Mrs. Duncan looked over her shoulder and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner.

"You know how young girls are these days. When the first man showed up I just assumed she had finally got a live-in boyfriend. Nice looking bloke, tall with shaggy brown hair. I could see how some women would find him attractive. Too skinny for my taste though." She puffed on her cigarette then continued, "Well, the poor fellow only lasted about a month. Then, my word, it seemed like she had a different fellow over there every night! I've never seen such carrying on. It was positively scandalous. Then as quickly as it started it was over. Things have been quiet over there for a couple months now. You don't know anything about it do you?" Mrs. Duncan gave Moriarty a hopeful stare.

"No ma'am," Jim pointedly looked at his watch. "I really have to hurry. Dr. Hooper is waiting." He smiled to take the sting out of the rebuff. "It'll be my job if I make her late. You understand."

"Yes, yes, go on dear. Be sure to tell her I'll care for Toby."

Jim nodded politely and strode across the hallway and into Molly's flat. As he leaned back against the

closed door, his face deepened into a furious scowl. "Nosy old bat." Now she would be able to identify him to anyone asking about Molly's whereabouts. Damn! He thought, well, it couldn't be helped, must remember to have that detail taken care of later. He was reasonably sure the tall bushy haired man had been Sherlock. The others were probably Sherlock in disguise. Jim smirked at the thought of Sherlock running around in disguises that only gave Molly a disreputable reputation with her neighbors.

It took only a few moments for him to search the tiny living room. He pocketed a picture of Molly from a photo album on the bookshelf. It was a studio portrait, the kind used for photo directories or professional promotions. He was disappointed to find no photos of Sherlock. He moved to the kitchen area, unaware that a pair of yellow-green eyes were watching his every move. Moriarty quickly began searching in drawers and cabinets. Nothing. He was bent over the last drawer when all hell broke loose. With a snarling hiss and a ferocious yowl, Toby launched himself from the top of the fridge, claws fully extended, landing on Jim Moriarty's shoulders. Jim screamed in terror, straightened up, reached over his shoulder and tried to grab the cat, only to be bitten between his thumb and forefinger. Toby sank his claws deeper into the intruder's shoulders. Yelping in pain Moriarty tried again. This time he managed to grab the scruff of the creature's neck as he danced around the kitchen. Pulling the cat away from his back he felt the material of his suit slowly give. Damn, the cat from hell was ruining his coat! Freeing Toby from the material he shifted his grip to the cat's tail, carefully avoiding the thrashing claws, and quickly began to swing the cat over his head like a lasso, using centrifugal force to keep the cat's claws and teeth away from his hands and other body parts. "Meow-eeow-eeow-eeow..." the cat shrieked as he circled Moriarty's head. With a mighty last swing he released the cat and watched as, still yowling and hissing, Toby flew across the room and slammed head first against the wall, then fell to the floor and lay unmoving in a crumpled heap. The God awful screeching stopped.

"Damn you, cat." Moriarty spat. "You've ruined my suit!" Removing his coat his scowl deepened as he inspected the snags the cat's claws had left. "If you weren't dead already, I'd kill you!" he screamed. One did not go about London in a damaged Westwood. He threw the coat down and stalked to the bathroom. After cleaning and bandaging his hand, he carefully looked around but found no evidence of Holmes.

The only room left was the bedroom. He had expected the room to be fluffy and pink, or some other girlish color scheme that jarred the eyes. The room was a cool sage green with beige and teal accents. Quite restful in fact, but Moriarty wasn't in the mood to appreciate the decor. He stomped across the room, surveyed a shelf with a collection of porcelain cats. With a vindictive snarl he swept the delicate figurines to the floor smiling with satisfaction as they shattered. He began yanking open drawers and scattering contents.

He found was he was looking for in Molly's undergarment drawer. Nestled under bits of froth and lace was a postal package. The address was to Dr. Hooper, care of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Inside was a box of chocolates that appeared untouched and a small card reading "Sorry. SH"

"Chocolates! Oh, Sherlock how romantic." Jim cooed. "I didn't think you had it in you old boy." Picking up the card, he idly wondered what Sherlock was asking forgiveness for. Underneath the card Molly had tucked a photo of Sherlock. He was sitting behind a microscope head down peering into the eyepiece, one hand on the focusing knob. It was obviously a candid shot. Probably taken on a phone. "Molly, Molly, sneaking around taking pictures of the great man are you?" Jim smirked. Slowly the grin on Jim's face deepened to a full smile. He stared at the chocolates. As the plan formed he laughed aloud. It was absolutely brilliant, better than he could have ever hoped for. Jim did a little dance step grabbed a handful of the chocolates and headed out of the room. Pausing to pick up his ruined suit coat, he glanced at the cat. He was almost sorry he had killed it. He decided after his plans were completed he would buy three new Westwood suits to replace the ruined one. Whistling cheerfully, he left the flat. He didn't notice the feeble movements of the cat as it slowly regained consciousness.

**ɸ**

"Dr. Hooper?" the man standing in the doorway of a closed shop inquired. "Could I talk with you for a moment?"

Molly glanced carefully around. It wasn't late. The street was busy and the sidewalk was filled with people going to and fro. She had never seen the man before, so she cautiously stepped nearer.

"Yes?"

"A friend of yours is in need of medical assistance," the man paused for a moment and then continued, "his initials are SH."

Molly froze. "How do I know you are telling the truth?"

The man smiled, "He said you might not believe me. He said to give you these and say he's still sorry." He opened his hand so Molly could see the foil wrapped chocolates embossed with the word "_Seduction_."

She took the chocolates and stared down at them. "How bad off is he?"

"Bad enough," the man grimaced. "Ordinarily, we could have taken care of him ourselves, but we lost our medic in a skirmish last week. You know we can't take him to hospital."

Molly nodded briskly. Sliding the chocolates into her pants pocket she looked up at the stranger. "You'll take me to him? I'll need to get my medical kit."

"No need, Dr. Hooper. We have a well stocked facility. I have a cab waiting if you are ready?"

Molly nodded and followed the man to a cab that pulled smoothly to the curb. Sliding into the interior, Molly noticed someone was already seated in the far corner. Turning, the man placed one hand behind Molly's head, clamping a cloth over her nose and mouth with the other. Terror filled her heart as she smelled the sweetish sickening odor and she looked into the laughing eyes of her attacker. Everything faded to black as she lost consciousness and slumped over to rest her head against his shoulder.

"Hello, Molly dear," Moriarty said gleefully, "It's nice to see you again."


	6. Contacts

Chapter Six - Contacts

Several days passed before John could reach Mycroft. He was out of the country and unavailable; Anthea promised to let John know as soon as he returned. John didn't understand why he felt so anxious about Sherlock's phone. It didn't change the fact that Sherlock was gone, but there had been something in Molly's voice. An urgency that kept haunting him. He felt restless and unsettled.

Thursday evening, John answered the door at 221b to find Mycroft standing outside, cane in hand. "Anthea says you wanted to take a look at Sherlock's mobile?" he asked.

John nodded and stepped aside to allow Mycroft to enter. Mycroft looked around the flat curiously, it was the first time he had been there since the funeral. The furniture was the same but Sherlock's things had been packed away. The only object of Sherlock's that remained was the skull which vacantly peered at him from the mantle. The lack of clutter and scientific equipment made the room spacious but still cozy feeling. Mycroft took a seat in what was once his brother's chair.

"May I get some tea for you?" John asked politely.

Mycroft shook his head. "Why now John? What has happened to make you want to see his phone now?" John sat down in his chair which was directly opposite Mycroft. He looked at Mycroft Holmes and shivered. He wasn't frightened, nothing about the elder Holmes was threatening at the moment, rather he just felt a sense of _déjà vu_. An echo of Sherlock seemed to fill the room. Was it Mycroft's tone of voice, the tilt of his head, or the fact he was sitting in Sherlock's chair that bothered him? Whatever it was, it was gone in a moment. He had never really thought of Mycroft and Sherlock being alike. Certainly they were both brilliant and manipulative bastards, but they had seemed so different. John had always thought of Sherlock as so totally unique that he couldn't possibly have similarities with anyone, not even a brother. He cleared his throat.

"I don't know. I was talking to Molly Hooper last week and..." John paused as Mycroft frowned slightly. He could almost see Mycroft processing the name, connecting its relevance to the topic of discussion. At Mycroft's slight nod John continued, "And she mentioned the mobile and wondered if there might be a message on it for me."

"She works at Bart's I believe?" Mycroft asked. At John's nod he continued. "She had a crush on Sherlock." he stated thoughtfully. "Interesting." A look of satisfaction crossed his face. It was the look of someone who had just found a missing piece of a particularly difficult puzzle.

Did the man actually know everything about everyone even slightly connected to his brother? Evidently he did. John smiled slightly visioning the files on Donavan and Anderson. He would love to get a peek into those.

Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a mobile phone. He handed it to John.

John held the phone in his hand for a moment before turning it on. Memories and thoughts of Sherlock flooded his brain. Quickly scanning through the various apps he went on to the directory. Not a lot of numbers listed. Himself, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and a few others. He was amused to find Anderson listed as well. The notepad was filled with the usual notes one would expect Sherlock to make about current cases. John was about to give up when suddenly it was there. He stared at it in disbelief.

"Oh, jeezus," he swore. He looked at it again. After all this time he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and peered once again at the phone's tiny screen. It was still there. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. All kinds of emotions came crashing down. He was elated. Sherlock was alive! He was bewildered. Why hadn't Sherlock contacted him? He was angry. Where was he? He was confused. He had seen him fall! John handed the phone to Mycroft. "I don't know what to say." he stood up rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. Mycroft looked at the screen. On it was a simple grocery list. He had seen this before. He looked at John with raised eyebrows.

"This is not a grocery list" he stated. John looked at him and shook his head.

"It's a code."

"And you know what it means?"

"Yes.". He took the phone and held it so they both could see.

**Sainsbury's**

** tuna**

** carrots**

** spice cake **

** I will get milk**

** _p.s. Don't forget I need cigarettes_**

"The first line tells me it's a code. We never shop at Sainsbury's. Sherlock hates it for some reason. Tuna stands for_ 'All is not what it seems_,' carrots means '_Danger_,' spice cake _is '__If you tell Mycroft you're an idiot.'"_

"Really John?"

"It's better than pound cake." he said with a straight face. "That one means '_Under no circumstance tell Mycroft.' _I will get milk means_ 'I will contact you at the appropriate time_.'" John handed the phone back to Mycroft. "Something went wrong didn't it? He would have contacted me by now."

"Never underestimate the powers of my dear brother." Mycroft said gently. "I have full confidence he will appear when he chooses, or sooner if I track him down. I have suspected something like this for some time. This just confirms my suspicions. John, what does I need cigarettes mean?"

John flushed uncomfortably. "Private message," he mumbled, "nothing really."

Mycroft frowned watching John's face. Suddenly he smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say that John. Cigarettes are terribly addictive aren't they? What's your code name John?"

If possible John's face grew even redder than it already was. Sherlock had insisted his code name be cigarettes. John had given in. After all it was just a silly code and they were listing things they didn't like. Things that would never appear on a real shopping list. John had been impressed that Sherlock was willing to include cigarettes as one of the items.

"So what do we do now? How do we find him? You will include me in this search if only so I can be the first to beat the stuffing out of the cold-hearted git," John growled. "Who does he think he is, running off like that, leaving me behind?"

"My brother appears to have an inordinate desire to protect you." Mycroft said mildly. "Perhaps he thinks you have great value."

John snorted. "Yeah, right. He thinks so much of me that he neglects to let me know he is alive after all this time."

"Perhaps he wants to make sure you are safe."

"If I wanted safe I wouldn't be here. Why didn't he ask me what I wanted?"

"I'm afraid that's a question which will have to wait until you can ask him yourself." Mycroft looked at his wristwatch. "It's not too late. What do you say we pop over and pay Dr. Hooper a little visit? Something tells me she may be able to shed some light on the whereabouts of my dear brother."

The two men headed out the door, down the stairs, and out to Mycroft's ever-present limo waiting at the curb. As he gave Molly's address to Anthea, John wondered about what it was that Molly knew. She had always spoken of Sherlock in the present tense, as if he were still alive. At least until last week. Why had she changed? He thought of their many meetings. Why had she started meeting with him? What was she trying to tell him? If she knew Sherlock was alive why hadn't she said so? What was really going on? Should he helping Mycroft? Sherlock hadn't forbidden it; he only said he would be an idiot if he did. What in the hell was going on? The questions kept going around and around in John's head, but there were no answers in sight.

"John?"

John looked over. Mycroft was looking at him with concern.

"Relax, John. We will find him. I've been following his activities for several weeks. I just didn't realize it was him until recently."

John nodded and forced his clenched fists to straighten and lie open on his knees. "I just wish he had trusted me enough to help him." he said bitterly.

Mycroft didn't reply and the rest of the ride was spent in silence.

When they came to a stop in front of Molly's flat, John looked up at the dark windows.

"It doesn't look like she's home. It's too early for bed. Maybe she's still at Bart's."

They climbed the stairs to Molly's second floor flat. There was no answer to the doorbell. John was about to suggest that they call Bart's when he saw Mycroft fit something silvery into the lock. There was a small snick and he turned the knob and swung the door open.

The smell hit their noses as John snapped on the lights.

"Oh dear God," he moaned as he spotted slippered feet jutting out from behind kitchen table. He rushed closer to the body and thankfully realized that it wasn't Molly.

The old lady lay on her back, a look of surprise on her face. A tin of cat food was gripped in one hand. A single bullet wound in her forehead told the story. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.

Mycroft holding a handkerchief over his nose leaned over and pointed at disfiguring tears of the skin and tissue around her nose and lips. "What on earth caused those?" He asked.

John grimaced. "Molly owns a cat. When left trapped with a dead body cats sometime do this. Once a person is dead they can't tell it was human. To a cat it's just meat. I suppose Toby got hungry." That explained the lack of blood, he thought grimly.

"Remind me to never own a cat." Mycroft said looking down distastefully at the mangled corpse. How long has she been dead?"

"Just based on her current state of decomp, my guess would be three or four days."

Mycroft nodded and moved off to phone Scotland Yard.

John stood and looked quickly around the small flat, careful not to touch anything. It was a mess. Someone had trashed the place. "Who is this woman? Where is Molly and what in the hell is going on?"

XXX

Molly lay on the lumpy mattress shivering in spite of the blanket she had been given. It was dark. It was always dark. The single light bulb several hundred feet away allowed only shadows and forms to be seen of her surroundings. She was inside a large metal wire cage of some sort. It looked like the kind of thing some warehouses used to secure valuable merchandise. It contained only her mattress and a bucket to be used as a toilet. Four times a guard had brought food, water and had exchanged the bucket for a clean one. She had been here four days then; but Molly also vaguely remembered bright lights, pain and questions, lots and lots of questions. She thought she remembered answering those questions but she wasn't sure. She must have been drugged. Her only clear memories were of being in this cage. If she had been given drugs to make her talk why was she still alive?

Some time later she heard footsteps. Her guard was coming. Surely a day had not passed already? Molly rolled smoothly to her feet. As the steps grew closer, she noticed the difference in sound. This was a different man, lighter of step. This was her chance, if she could overtake him when he turned to close the door to her cage she might be able to escape. She had tried with the other guard and had been electro-shocked for her effort. Perhaps this man would be less cautious.

The steps stopped outside the door of her prison.

"Hello again, Molly," Jim Moriarty smiled. In his hands he held a taser. "I think it's time for some fun don't you?"

XXX

Sherlock sat at a small table littered with papers and maps. The two men opposite him were discussing the best way to break into the suspected headquarters of one of Moriarty's lieutenants. Their voices droned in the background. His thoughts drifted inward shutting out the sounds of his surroundings. It had been a mistake going to watch John and Molly last week he admitted to himself. Seeing them had surfaced feelings of discontent. He was not satisfied with his current life. He wanted more than capturing criminals and solving puzzles he realized with surprise. He allowed his mind to drift to his mind palace, to the special room he had created recently. It was more detailed than any other room. The living room at Baker Street was recreated down to the smallest detail. He acknowledged his skull sitting on the mantle with a nod. One vacant eye socket winked back at him and its jaws widened slightly in a ghoulish grin. Sitting in his chair, small table supporting his laptop, John was busy working on the latest entry to his blog. He didn't look up, he never did, but continued typing a satisfied grin on his face.

Sherlock settled into the chair opposite John, sighing with contentment. He closed his eyes relaxing for the first time in days. He always did his best thinking here. He opened his eyes again. There had been no sound, there was never sound in his mind palace, but a feeling of an additional presence caused him to swing around. On the leather couch Molly was comfortably curled at one end reading a book. By her side Toby lay stretched out in feline grace. Sherlock frowned, "What were they doing in his mind palace?" He had not invited them yet here they were. He turned and looked at John. He was still typing. If he was aware of Molly he didn't appear bothered by it. Sherlock twisted around again. Molly was still there, quietly reading occasionally turning a page. Toby was staring at him with a look Sherlock could have sworn said, "Of course we're here, you idiot."

Sherlock turned back around and settled into his chair. He wasn't sure what all this meant, but as he relaxed he realized that Molly's presence did feel right. She belonged there just as much as John. Whatever the reason, it was a very good thing, he decided. He focused on the problems that had brought him here in the first place and soon was deep in plans for the next raid on Moriarty's crumbling empire. He was so deep in thought he didn't react when Toby suddenly appeared on his lap vibrating with silent purrs as Sherlock petted him absently.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," the voice repeated in a louder tone.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Reality crashing around him, his brilliant mind adjusting in a fraction of a second. "Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you sir, but I think you will want to see this," George Flinn, a good man to have around in a fight, held out a sheet of paper. "This has been posted all about this area as of this morning. We're sure they weren't there yesterday." Flinn handed Sherlock a flyer. It was a missing person poster, the kind family members often desperately hung in hopes of word of a missing loved one. This one was a little different. It read: **S. HOLMES Do you know where this person is?** Under the words was a large picture of Molly. It was a copy of the one on her security identification badge at Bart's. Beneath the photo was a telephone number.

"Do you know what it means?" Flinn asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I'll take care of this," he said grimly

"If you need help..." Flynn was interrupted by a curt answer.

"No, I said I'll take care of this."

Flynn bobbed his head and retreated from the room.

Sherlock stood, crossed quickly to a desk against the wall and opened one of its deep drawers. Inside connected to chargers were several disposable mobile phones. Grasping one, he quickly disconnected it and flipped the cover open. He entered the number from the poster and waited impatiently as it rang twice before a pleasant voice answered.

"J.M. Enterprises, How may I help you?"

"I want to talk to Moriarty." Sherlock snapped.

"Pardon sir, could you repeat that?"

"You heard me, get Moriarty now or you will be extremely sorry!" Sherlock shouted.

"Just a moment Mr. Holmes." the voice said mildly. "I'll transfer your call." To Sherlock's disbelief soothing background music floated from the phone. He had been put on hold!

A soft click on the line and then James Moriarty's cheerful voice filled Sherlock's ear.

"Well hello, Sherlock! It's so nice to hear from you. I thought you were dead!"

"Where's Molly?"

"Oh, she's fine. She's helping me with a little experiment. Here take a look."

A video clip played on Sherlock's screen. Molly was shown being electro-shocked over and over. Her body spasming and thrashing.

"How many times do you think she will be able to handle the shock before permanent damage occurs?" Moriarty asked in a detached voice.

"Let me talk to her. I need to know she is still alive."

"If you insist." Moriarty held the mobile over close to the cage. "Molly dear, someone wants to talk to you."

"Sherlock!" Molly screamed into the phone, don't listen to him, it's a trap! Stay away! Stay away, do you hear me?"

"I'm coming to get you." Sherlock stated flatly.

"No, oh God, please don't try anything. I can handle this myself. You know I can."

Moriarty pulled the phone away and walked away from Molly. Sherlock could still hear her screaming for him to stay away in the background.

"Loyal little thing, isn't she? What do you do to your friends that make them so willing to die for you? Are you that good in bed?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock snarled.

"I want what I have always wanted." Moriarty screamed. All pretense of civility gone from his voice. "If you want to save Molly, you will come to the corner of Regents Street and Glasshouse in two hours. If you're late or you try anything, you'll be fishing Miss Hooper out of the Thames tomorrow morning." The phone went dead.

Sherlock sat for a few moments, then looked directly above his head fixing his eyes on the light fixture. "You heard him," he said quietly. "We don't have much time. If you are going to help at least give me a half hour with him before you move in." Sherlock stood up and left the room.

John stood leaning over Mycroft's shoulder peering at the room displayed on the computer. "He knew you were watching. He bloody knew you were watching him!" he exclaimed.

"As I've said before, John," Mycroft smiled with obvious pride. "Never underestimate the devious powers of deduction made by Sherlock Holmes."


	7. The Final Problem Revisited

Chapter Seven - The Final Problem Revisited

Sherlock knew it was a trap. He knew he was putting himself into Moriarty's hands. He knew he probably wouldn't come out alive. He went anyway.

Standing on the corner of Regents and Glasshouse, Sherlock watched the traffic flow past. Rage at the thoughts of what Moriarty had done to Molly seethed through him. He forced his emotions to the side. He needed to be cold and clear-headed when he faced Moriarty.

The dark car stopped and the back door opened. Sherlock quickly slid into the seat, his face an emotionless mask. He was not surprised when the needle punctured the skin of his neck. His last coherent thought was that he hoped he would be able to face Moriarty one last time before he died.

**Φ**

"What do you mean you lost him?" John shouted. "With all the CCTV cameras in London, you actually lost him?"

The man reporting to Mycroft glared at John, "Not every street has CCTV. Most do, but this driver seemed to have a knack for finding the few that didn't."

He turned his gaze back to his boss. "By the time the car pulled into the fourth side street without cameras, it was too late. We pulled the car over but there is no telling on which street the switch was made. We'll interrogate the driver of course, but it will take time."

Mycroft nodded. His people were very good. It rankled that the mistake had been made. "Go back over the film and watch vehicles exiting uncontrolled streets after Sherlock's car. Maybe if we are lucky we will be able to tell which car they switched him into." The man nodded and hurried away.

"Time," Mycroft said softly, "we need time." He looked at John, worry creasing his face. "I'm afraid Sherlock is on his own for now."

**Φ**

Sherlock awoke and found himself shackled spread eagle to a metal table that was firmly bolted to the floor. He could lift his head somewhat but his wrists and ankles were firmly bound.

The room was small with a high ceiling. A countertop and cabinets lined one wall. Two walls were bare. Opposing the cabinets, the fourth wall was taken up mostly with a thick pane of glass under which was a small sliding metal drawer and a speaker. It was not unlike a drive-through bank window.

_Isolation chamber_, Sherlock thought, _the kind used to work with toxic substances_. The condition of the room suggested it had not been in use for some time. _Abandoned research facility of some kind then._

He looked above him. Close to the ceiling was a convoluted collection of various tubes, glass containers, wires and gears arranged in a Rube Goldberg style contraption that ended in a pipette several feet above his bare chest. Sherlock studied the progression of the objects deducing their purpose. He eyed a large container of yellowish liquid cautiously. _Definitely not good,_ he concluded.

Lights the other side of the glass panel flared on revealing a room empty except for a chair facing the glass window of Sherlock's prison. The door opened and Moriarty appeared behind the glass holding a subdued Molly in front of him, a knife at her neck gleaming in the harsh light. Molly saw Sherlock and made a slight move to speak.

"Ah-ah-ah, not a good idea Molly," Moriarty crooned as his knife pressed deeper and the point dug into her skin. Molly gasped as a small trickle of blood seeped from the cut and slid down her neck.

"I grew up in my father's butcher shop in Dublin," he told her, "I could filet you alive." Another small dig and a fresh rivulet of blood, slightly larger began to cascade downward as Molly whimpered.

"How would you feel about that Sherlock? It's amazing how long a person can remain conscious while being skinned alive. Would you enjoy watching Molly suffer as much I would?" He cocked his head to the side as if considering and then shook his head.

"As much fun as that might be . . ." Moriarty stopped talking and with his free hand gathered some of Molly's blood on a fingertip. He locked eyes with Sherlock and slowly placed the blood covered finger in his mouth sucking with an expression of enjoyment. Inside the isolation room Sherlock vainly thrashed against his bonds, a snarl of rage escaping his throat.

". . . as much fun as that might be," Moriarty continued, "I have something else planned for both of you today." His face grimaced. A manic look flickered in his eyes before turning expressionless.

"You and I have an old score to settle Sherlock," he said stonily. "You were supposed to die that day on the rooftop. Your career was in ruins, your reputation trashed. Why couldn't you have just died and finished it? You ruined everything!" he screamed.

"Let Molly go," Sherlock said calmly, "I'm the one you want. Let her go and I'll do what you want."

"No Sherlock!" Molly sobbed and earned a fresh cut for her effort.

"You'll do what I want no matter what," Moriarty snarled, "you are not in a position to bargain."

He shoved Molly over to the door, kicked it open and thrust her roughly inside, slamming the door behind her. She immediately rushed to Sherlock's side and vainly attempted to undo the shackles holding him to the table.

"They're too well made. You would need a hacksaw to free me," Sherlock told her calmly.

Frantically, Molly searched the drawers and cabinets in the small room, looking for anything that could be used as a tool to free Sherlock. There was nothing.

"You don't think I would leave anything to help you escape do you Molly?" Moriarty scoffed from behind the window. "How can you stand to be around such stupidity Sherlock? What did you ever see in her? John I can understand, after all he is quite good looking. But this," he pointed at Molly, "this is so disappointingly dull."

With her back to the glass, Molly placed her shaking hands on the countertop and forced herself to calm down. She needed to get control, she needed to think. Molly forced herself to focus on being calm. She turned and quietly crossed over to stand beside Sherlock, determined to not do anything to irritate Moriarty further.

"So . . . here we are." Moriarty continued. You and I, faced with the problem, our real final problem, all over again. To put it simply," Jim Moriarty took a swaggering step forward arms bent akimbo, hands at his hips as if about to draw a gun, "this town ain't big enough for the both of us pardner. One of us has to die and it sure ain't gonna be me," he said in a rough gravely voice.

He pointed his gun shaped fingers at Sherlock and made a fake gunshot sound, pretending to blow smoke away as he holstered the make-believe weapon.

With lightning speed his voice and demeanor changed into a sophisticated tone. Moriarty smiled. "I still owe you, Sherlock. I once made a promise to you; I said I would _'burn the heart out of you_.' I intend to keep that promise today."

Moriarty seated himself in the chair facing the window.

"Shall we begin?," he asked as he steepled his hands in front of him and glanced at the apparatus above Sherlock's chest.

"I do hope you will appreciate the time and thought that has gone into my little experiment. Observe carefully if you please. At a push of this button," he held a remote up for them to see, "a timer will begin. Precisely three minutes later a concentrated amount of sulfuric acid will begin to drip from the pipette over your chest in fifteen second intervals. The acid will begin to burn its way through your skin eventually reaching your heart. Clever, don't you think? Oh, and to make it more interesting, the gears connected to the pipette will cause it to move five centimeters in a clockwise direction with each drop."

Moriarty looked over at Molly, pity in his eyes. "That means it extends the time for him to suffer," he said as if talking to a particularly dim-witted child.

"I don't intend to leave you out of the fun, my dear Molly." He pointed to the largest glass container in the apparatus. "That glass container of sulfuric acid will be broken by a metal hammer ten minutes after the process begins. At that point Sherlock is toast. As for you, even if you go to the corner of the room, the fumes will enter your lungs. Not a pleasant way to go, but I fear we all must die somehow."

Pausing he cracked his neck to the left, then to the right and looked back at Sherlock and Molly.

"I think it will be more fun if this little experiment includes some participation from our test subjects. Some Intelligence is required however, so you may be on your own Sherlock."

Molly saw Sherlock's jaws clench. She placed a hand on his arm. "It's okay," she said gently. "He's trying to upset you."

Sherlock looked into Molly's eyes and said. "I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this mess."

"I'm not." she said simply. "I can't think of anyone I would rather be in a mess with." She smiled and felt Sherlock's arm relax.

"Oh, how touching," Moriarty sneered. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I have a small task you must perform for this experiment to be complete." He pulled out a large ring of keys from his pocket.

_"Five of these keys are not like the others. Five of these keys are just not the same . . ."_ he crooned in a sing-song voice.

"There are one hundred fifty keys on this ring," he explained. "Four of them will unlock the shackles, one will unlock the door. It's really simple Molly; even you should be able to figure it out. Find the keys, free Sherlock."

Molly turned and walked past Sherlock and leaned into the glass looking Moriarty in the eye. "If we get out of here I will make you pay. That's a promise."

"Oooh! Sticks and stones my dear! You don't have enough brains to get out of that room let alone get to me." Moriarty stood up and placed the keys in the metal drawer under the window. Glancing at his watch, he said, "You have three minutes to say goodbye before the process begins." He pushed the button on the remote control and there was an ominous click of a relay slamming closed in the contraption on the ceiling.

_"Beep...beep...beep..."_ a timer announced the countdown had begun.


	8. Resolution revised

Chapter Eight - Resolution

George Flinn spoke to the phone. "Are you sure we don't have enough men to handle this?"

"Yes sir," the voice on the speaker phone answered with a tinny sound. "Jackson got close enough to count at least thirty men. He thinks there may be at least that many more inside the warehouse."

Flinn looked down at the laptop on the table. A soft beeping and a flashing symbol indicated that the GPS bug Sherlock had worn was still stationary. He sighed. "Well, shit." he swore. "Still no sign of his brother's people? They should have been there by now if they were watching."

"No sir."

Flinn swore under his breath again. "Pull out and meet us tomorrow at the new location."

"Yes sir..." the tinny voice hesitated then asked, "Are we leaving him sir?"

Flinn scowled, his ex-military sense of rank and protocol was offended. He ought to have the man disciplined for questioning orders like that. His men liked Sherlock though. He had saved more than one of their lives over the past few months. That had gone a long way toward ignoring the man's more than derisive remarks.

With a sigh he spoke to the phone. "No, we are not abandoning him, I'm just changing plans. Now get your arse out of there now!" he roared.

"Yes sir."

Flinn wiped his hand over the top of his close cropped head. He hated the government. He hated the military that had been his life until he was severely wounded. He hated the bureaucracy that determined he was useless and cast him and others like him out to fend for themselves. Every fiber of his being screamed rebellion as he punched in the number Sherlock had given him for emergency.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"You were watching when Sherlock talked to Moriarty?" Flinn rasped.

There was a hesitation and then, "Yes. Who is this?"

"Then you know Sherlock went after him. Do you know where he is now?"

A longer hesitation then, "not exactly."

Flinn smiled, he enjoyed the sound of the almighty Holmes eating humble pie. "It's not going to be easy to get him out. The situation calls for more manpower than I can provide." He gave Mycroft the coordinates of the abandoned warehouse indicated on the GPS. "And, Mycroft, tell him we tried."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft cleared his throat. "We owe you one." he said reluctantly.

"Yes, you certainly do," agreed Flinn. "See that you remember that when the time comes." He closed the phone with a snap.

**ɸ**

"_Beep...beep...beep._.." The counter continued to sound as time slipped away. Molly ran to the metal drawer under the window and grabbed the keys.

"That's it, Molly. Hurry! You don't have much time!" Moriarty taunted.

Molly crossed the room to face Sherlock, her back to the window, blocking Moriarty's view. She began to frantically search through the ring of keys. Her shaking fingers causing the keys to rattle.

Sherlock mumbled, "H2S04, H2S04, H2S04 . . ." rapidly to himself. His eyes opened wide as he looked at Molly. "Do you have any chocolate?" he asked urgently.

Molly stared at him. "What? What did you say? "

"Chocolate! Molly, do you have any chocolate?"

As Molly began frantically searching her pockets, Sherlock spoke in a rapid, low voice; "Chocolate contains sugar, carbohydrates, lactose, sucrose... carbon, hydrogen, oxygen...C12H12O11. The sulfuric acid will react with the water contained in the sugars, the hydrogen and oxygen...creating elemental carbon. Carbon is inert. If we can get some chocolate into the end of that pipette," he explained, peering up at the tube above him, "it will effectively stopper the end, keeping the sulfuric acid from dropping down. And that," he concluded with a smile, "will buy us time to work with the keys."

"That's brilliant Sherlock!" Molly grinned as she pulled out the handful of chocolates her abductor had lured her with. "It's a good thing I forgot about these, I might have eaten them if I remembered I had them." She frowned down at the squashed chocolate. "They're half melted, will that make a difference?"

"Actually it will help. Do you think you can reach the pipette if you stand on the table?"

Molly looked up at the tube, it looked awfully far away. "Yes." she said with more confidence than she felt. She reached down and removed her socks. Her shoes had been taken from her days ago. Sherlock's were missing as well. Probably so they couldn't use them as weapons. With bare feet that grasped the smooth tabletop more firmly than socks would have allowed, she scrambled up onto the table. Placing one foot between Sherlock's legs and the other beside his hip on the left, she reached upward with her arms. Even stretching as much as possible she was several centimeters short of the pipette. Molly looked down at Sherlock.

"Sorry, I'm going to need to stand on top of you."

Sherlock nodded.

"Ready?" Molly asked.

"Yes."

Molly stepped up onto Sherlock's stomach and reached upward once more. On the other side of the window, Moriarty was screaming and yelling, "What's going on? What is that stuff? Nothing will work you stupid bitch! That's sulfuric acid; you're wasting time! You should be looking at the keys!"

Molly ignored Moriarty's ranting. She concentrated on keeping her balance on top of Sherlock. She carefully began pushing the softened chocolate inside the end of the pipette. It wasn't easy, the opening was not very large.

"Hold your breath a minute," she told Sherlock as she pushed more of the gooey sweets into the tube. That was as good as she could do. Molly used a corner of a less melted chocolate to plug the end of the pipette.

On the other side of the glass the strains of Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" began to emanate from his pocket. Moriarty paused a moment before he recalled that he had changed his mobile ringtone from The Bee Gee's "Stayin' Alive." He reached into his pocket to retrieve the device.

Molly jumped down from the table. She quickly opened the remaining chocolates and began to smear them thickly on Sherlock's chest over his heart.

"Molly, what are you doing?" Sherlock gasped.

"Plan B," Molly said shortly, "In case I didn't do a good enough job up there," she pointed to the pipette.

"It tickles." Sherlock grumped.

"Your chest will do more than tickle if that acid gets through."

"What do you mean they're outside?" Moriarty screamed into his phone. "Get more men down there and stop them. I don't care what you have to do. Blow them up if you have to. Don't let them in. Do you hear me? And sent Rafferty's team up here for backup!" he shouted.

James Moriarty turned, his jaw clenched in frustration. It was all going wrong, damn Mycroft Holmes! He was obviously the one behind all this. He made a mental note to personally take care of the elder Holmes when this was over. Maybe he would skin him alive. He deserved it with all his meddling ways. It was time the Holmes name was wiped from the face of the earth.

Calmer, he looked at the two through the window. Molly was back on the floor doing something to Sherlock's chest. What in the hell were they up to? He took a step closer to the window and pecked on it with his finger. Molly glanced around.

"It looks like the cavalry has arrived pilgrim," he said in his best John Wayne drawl, "but we got 'em cut off at the pass, so they're gonna be too late to help y'all."

Pointing up at the pipette which now sported a lump of something stuck to the opening he switched back to his normal sneering tone.

"Even if the sulfuric drip doesn't work, the glass container will take care of you both when it breaks. You're not going to have enough time."

As if to prove his point a small bell chimed and the pipette rotated clockwise. Nothing happened.

"Seven minutes left," Moriarty cackled as he left the room to supervise operations outside.

"Quick, Molly, hold up the keys." Sherlock urged.

Hurriedly Molly held up a key for Sherlock to see. Each key was labeled with a number. When she held up key number sixteen he told her to stop. Frantically Molly tried the key in each of the shackles with no result.

"Try the door." She rushed to the door. It unlocked with a satisfying click. Running back she began holding the next key up for him to look at. Overhead the pipette was turning every fifteen seconds like clockwork. So far, the acid was contained within the tube.

"If we run out of time I want you to leave me and get out." Sherlock said quietly.

"Shut up and look at the bloody keys!" Molly snarled. Did he really think she would leave him to die alone?

The fifty-fourth key opened the shackle holding his left leg. The eighty-ninth was almost passed over, but Molly now knowing what to look for saw the small difference. "Wait," she said, "it's this one." She tried Sherlock's left hand first, then his right. As the pipette continued to rotate overhead, Sherlock freed his right arm. Key number one hundred twenty one opened the shackle on his right ankle.

A warning chime sounded. Above their heads the pipette stopped rotating. Gears whirled. The pipette moved aside on a long track. The large container of sulfuric acid began its way over to center over Sherlock's table.

"Molly, its time for you to go," Sherlock said.

"No," Molly said shortly. She stared at the last few keys. What if they had missed the fifth key? The gears overhead whirled and the hammer locked into place, ready to drop and break the glass container of acid.

Molly eyed the last key. Key number one hundred fifty had the smallest difference of them all. Not wasting breath or time she jammed the key into the last shackle. With a satisfying snick, it opened. Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand as he rolled from the table.

"Close your eyes and mouth, don't breathe." Sherlock ordered.

They hurried for the door as the hammer smashed into glass and acid cascaded from the ceiling to cover the table Sherlock had been laying on just seconds before. When they reached the door Sherlock opened it, shoved Molly through and followed her slamming the door behind him.

They stood staring at one another not really believing they had escaped.

"God, that was close!" Molly said. "What next?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously, he knew adrenaline affected people differently especially if they were unused to it. Some people freeze, unable to move. Others get nauseous and shaky, while others become energized and better able to handle dangerous situations. Molly was displaying the latter symptoms. She didn't sound frightened, she was shaking a little, but he could tell she wasn't afraid. The effects of the adrenaline that was pumping through her body were all positive.

Molly looked through the square window of the door. "There are two men out there with guns." Sherlock nudged her over so he could see.

" We need a way to distract them," he said.

"I can do that," Molly smiled. "Watch and learn Sherlock Holmes." She striped off her jacket and dropped it to the floor. Next to go were her slacks. Molly unbuttoned four buttons of her top, allowing a generous peep at cleavage underneath. Her top was made of a stretchy black knit which was designed to hang in folds about her waist and hips. Pulling it down over her hips the wide band at the bottom cupped under her buttocks and gave the illusion of a very short black dress.

"Molly, what do you think you are doing?" Sherlock sounded slightly scandalized.

"Just wait, I'm not done yet." Molly said. She began chewing on her lips and slapping herself in the face. Then she bent over pulling the elastic band holding her hair away allowing it to hang down in front of her face. Using her hands and fingers as a comb, her tossed her hair this way and that as she remained bent over. Her hair was so long that the ends touched the floor as she flailed about. With a sudden jerk she stood upright and flipped her hair back and over her shoulders.

"There, she said breathlessly, what do you think?"

Sherlock stared. He couldn't quite believe his eyes. It was kind of like the children's story about the fluffy bunny who transformed into an evil vampire rabbit. Not believable, but there it was. The only word to describe Molly in her present form was damned sexy. Her lips were red and slightly swollen from where she had bitten them. Her hair poofed out around her like a magnificent golden brown mane. She looked like she had just been thoroughly ravished and had enjoyed every minute of it. Sherlock was speechless.

Molly grinned, "Close your mouth, Sherlock. You're beginning to drool." She lightly tapped his cheek with one of her fingers. "When I get the guards into position sneak up and take one down. I'll handle the other. With that she sailed out the door and into the hallway. "Oh, boyz!" Sherlock heard her throaty voice call out ,"Boyz, do you know where Jimmy is? He promised to meet me here twenty minutes ago."

"How did she walk that way barefooted?" he wondered. She swayed as if she were wearing stilettos. And he was not drooling he told himself angrily. He did close his mouth though.

The two men stared at Molly. One had the presence of mind to halfway raise his rifle. The other just grinned and stared Molly up and down. Molly chose the more aggressive one and sauntered up to him saying, "Hi there, is that an AK47 I see or are you just really happy to see me?" She quickly slipped around the men and turned to face the doorway where Sherlock remained hidden. The men turned with her. Placing her hands on either side of his face Molly smiled at her target. "My you're a good looking one, aren't you?" she crooned. "I bet all the girls want to jump your bones, and half the boys too." The guard flushed. His friend laughed and leaned one shoulder back against the wall to enjoy the show. Molly moved closer to the man making sure her right knee was well positioned. The move effectively trapped the gun between them.

"You know," she smiled suggestively, "I could show you a good time and Jimmy would never have to know." As the man bent down to kiss her. She brought her right knee sharply up into his crotch. One hand chopped his Adam's apple while the other made a fist and crashed into his head behind his right ear. He crumpled to the floor. She relieved the guard of his gun as Sherlock did the same to the other guard who was already unconscious. She handed the AK47 to Sherlock.

"Let's swap guns," she said, "this one's too big."

"Have you ever used a gun?" he asked.

"No, but if you aim the pointy end that way and pull the curvy thing back, it ought to work." she said mischievously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't need a gun." At her pout of protest he smiled and said, "You're dangerous enough as you are."

A considering look crossed Molly's face. She smiled sweetly up at Sherlock. "Okay," she said, "just as long as you realize it."

"What did that mean?" he wondered as he followed her down the hallway.

**ɸ**

Sherlock looked out from the doorway leading into a large room. It contained at least thirty men, maybe more. He thought he got a glimpse of John wrestling a man across the room but wasn't sure. Most of the men were fighting hand to hand but some lunatics were still firing gunshots which ricocheted from the metal walls of the room. It was dangerous as hell. He turned to warn Molly to stay in the hallway.

Molly took one look at the mayhem, shouted," Come on Sherlock!" and darted past him into the mess. Sherlock swore under his breath and followed. They were immediately surrounded. Back to back they methodically chopped and kicked, mowing down opponents right and left. Sherlock tried to keep an eye on Molly to head off any potential problems for her, but soon realized after the third blow to his body that he was going to have to let Molly fend for herself or find himself one of the casualties lying on the floor. Finishing a particularly brutal bout with two idiots who thought they could finish him off if they coordinated together, Sherlock looked up to see Molly literally launch herself at a man easily twice her size. In fact he was the biggest man in the room. The way Molly climbed up the large man's side reminded Sherlock of a spider monkey climbing a tree. Once on top of the man's shoulders with her legs around the man's thick neck Molly used her momentum to swing her upper body out and to the right. The movement caused the man's center of gravity to shift and the next thing he knew he was on the floor with Molly standing over him. Sherlock didn't to see what happened next as he found two hands gripping his neck and whirling him around. Some time later, when he was able to stand, he saw the giant was still lying unconscious on the floor but Molly was nowhere to be seen. Frantically searching, he finally spotted her running along the wall after James Moriarty as he disappeared through a doorway.

"Molly! No! Molly!" Sherlock shouted as he started after her only to find his feet kicked out from under him. He fell forward heavily onto his face.

Across the room John heard Sherlock shout Molly's name. He looked up to see Molly disappearing through a doorway. Without thinking he darted around two pairs of struggling men and across the floor to the doorway after her.

Molly reached the rooftop seconds after Moriarty. He was walking ahead of her obviously heading for the helicopter at the center of the rooftop.

"Moriarty!" Molly screamed, the _whump-whump-whump_ of the rotor blades swallowing her voice. Apparently some of the sound reached Moriarty. He turned in surprise, saw Molly running forward and put a hand in his pocket to retrieve his gun. Before he had a chance to raise it, Molly hit him with a stunning kick to the chest. Moriarty staggered backward his gun flying through the air, then skittering across the rough rooftop.

When John reached the roof he saw Molly and Moriarty struggling together, but he also saw the gunman hanging out of the door of the waiting helicopter. Without thinking John reached back and pulled his gun from his waistband. Releasing the safety, he took aim and fired. The gunman fell out of the copter and onto the roof. The helicopter lifted up, dipping slightly. From behind, John heard a shout of "Nooo!" He turned in time to see Sherlock, bare-chested and in stocking feet running to the rising helicopter. Sherlock grabbed the landing strut and attempted to climb up to the doorway. The helicopter gave an unexpected dip, threw Sherlock to the rooftop and continued to rise in a wobbly seesaw motion one rotor knocking against an air conditioner unit. It disappeared over the side of the building. Seconds later there was a flash of light and a thunderous crash of sound as the helicopter impacted with the ground.

When John rushed over to Sherlock he was astounded to see tears streaking down his cheeks.

Sherlock looked up at John's face. "Molly" he groaned.

"You thought she was in the helicopter?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"She was never in the helicopter," John said gently. He motioned behind him. "She's over there beating the shit out of Moriarty."

"Oh."

"You didn't contact me." John said severely.

"No."

"Were you ever going to contact me?"

"Yes..." he paused, "no..." and paused again. "I don't know," he finally admitted.

"Why, Sherlock? Why didn't you at least let me help you later?" John asked.

Hearing the hurt beneath the anger in his friend's voice, Sherlock struggled to make him understand. "You had already accepted me as dead," he said simply. "My new life was just as dangerous if not more so. It was the only way I could make sure you were safe."

"Sometimes, Sherlock Holmes, you can do some incredibly stupid things, but this one takes the cake."

Sherlock looked up at him and nodded. With a bit of hesitation, he spoke, "Perhaps, in this situation, I may have been a bit of an idiot," he said in an apologetic tone.

John grinned and held out his hand. "Come on then, up you get."

As Sherlock took his hand, John pulled him to his feet and into a tight hug. "Welcome home, Sherlock."

"Thank you John," Sherlock returned the hug.

"Do I smell chocolate?" John asked.

"It's a long story." Sherlock answered.

"I'm glad to see you boys have made up," Mycroft said as he joined the pair. John jumped back, red in the face. "It's a good thing its dark up here," Mycroft commented blandly. "I do believe John is blushing."

"Obviously." Sherlock agreed. John could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Welcome home, brother."

There was a long pause as Sherlock looked at his brother. "Mycroft," he began, waited several seconds then said, "Thank you."

Mycroft hearing the sincerity in Sherlock's voice, beamed and said. "Anytime, it's what families are for." He glanced over at Molly. "One of you should call off the pit bull. If she kills him I won't have anyone to question."

John started forward, but Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder and said, "I'll do it." Mycroft handed him a handkerchief. Sherlock nodded thanks and walked over to Molly.

Molly was still punching a mess that Sherlock supposed would one day be a face again. At the moment it looked more like ground beef. She punched where the nose should be, but it only made a sickening squishy sound on contact.

Squatting beside her he placed his hand on her arm. "Molly, it's time to stop." he said quietly.

Molly jerked. Looking up wildly she said grimly, "He hurt you. He hurt all of us."

"Yes, he did." Sherlock said.

"I'm going to kill him."

"No you're not. That's not you Molly'"

"He deserves to die."

"Yes, he does." Sherlock agreed. "But not today, and not by you. Let Mycroft take care of him. He's the one with the license to kill. Okay Molly?"

Sherlock pulled her gently to her feet and began wiping the blood off of her hands with Mycroft's handkerchief. Molly began to shake and sob. Sherlock pulled her close to his side his arm around her shoulders. Molly sighed and buried her head on his chocolate-covered chest, still crying. He looked down at her. He knew it was just reaction from the adrenaline. Where was a shock blanket when you really needed one? He didn't even have a shirt to give her. He tightened his arm about her protectively.

John joined them as they walked across the rooftop to the doorway. It was good to have his blogger back. It felt right. He glanced down at Molly. What was she? That she belonged there he was willing to admit, but he couldn't quite categorize her. He thought a moment and grinned. It wasn't quite right but it was close. It was good to have his blogger and his ninja by his side. Yes, that would do for now. "Let's go home," he said to both his friends.

**ɸ**

**AN: _I have been enjoying all of the story reviews, they have encouraged me and kept me going. If you have enjoyed this story, please let me know, I'd appreciate it a lot. BTW, this is not the end...an epilogue is on it's way. FYI, The chemical reaction between sulfuric acid and chocolate was confirmed by Jamie and Adam on "Mythbusters."_**


	9. Three Months Later

Chapter Nine - Three Months Later

A/N: This is the little epilogue that wouldn't stop growing. It has turned into two additional chapters! I really tried to wrap this up short and sweet but Molly and Sherlock had other ideas. Enjoy Chapter Nine, I'll post Chapter Ten next week!

Sherlock stood looking out the window at the busy traffic below. Everything was back to normal, or at least as normal as things ever got at 221b Baker Street. He was playing everything very low-key. No need for publicity. Only Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly knew of his return. Immediately following Morairty's capture he had moved back into Baker Street. He continued to wear his disguise of short reddish hair and beard. If anyone had noticed that John's new flat mate was similar to his old one, they probably thought it was the reason for Johns' selection. They had settled comfortably and were soon the mates they had always been. No rough edges there. Sherlock was grateful. He knew John had the right to be resentful over the way he had been treated, but except for the short clipped words on the night when they had first met again, he had shown no signs of anger. They had spent several hours quietly talking about that day on the rooftop of Bart's and the events afterward. The result being that John understood and accepted Sherlock's decisions on the matter. Oh, he had called him a worthless git and an idiot, but Sherlock knew it was his way of forgiving him.

News of Moriarty's duplicity was slowly being made public. Hopefully one day soon John would be able to write in his blog again and he could openly solve cases in the spectacular way he was accustomed to. For now, he was content to use John as a go between to help out Lestrade. Thanks to Mycroft's intervention, Lestrade had been given his old post back following an in-depth internal affairs inquiry. Surprisingly enough Donavan and Anderson seemed happy to welcome Lestrade back as their boss.

They had just wrapped up the loose ends for the last of Moriarty's lieutenants, one Sebastian Moran. It had been a particularly difficult case with considerable danger. Their scheme to capture Moran had almost backfired when Moran had decided to use the same room as he and John had chosen for a lookout. Fortunately, he had been quick-witted enough to use the mistake to his advantage resulting in Moran's capture.

Yes, everything on the whole was moving quite satisfactorily he reflected. There was still the problem of what to do about Molly. He shifted uncomfortably and shoved the thought away, plenty of time to worry about her later he decided.

**ɸ**

To Molly it seemed like Sherlock went from one case to next. Lestrade was out to prove that he was still the best Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard and he was constantly using Sherlock to accomplish it. Molly didn't mind, she understood how Sherlock was during a case. When he quietly slipped in the back way to use the lab, she had a smile and a cup of coffee waiting. It didn't bother her when he totally ignored her or called her John instead of Molly when he was distracted or concentrating. She was content to know he was close by and she was willing to help in any way.

Then, as time went on, she began to notice that Sherlock was behaving a little oddly, even for Sherlock. His change of behavior was most pronounced during the downtimes between cases. Molly would look up from her work and catch him staring at her. When she smiled back at him he gave no indication that he had seen her. He would just glance around the room and then go back to whatever he was doing. After the third time she had lightly said. "Do I have mustard on my nose?"

"What?" Sherlock asked distractedly.

"You were staring at my nose," Molly explained, smiling as she rubbed her nose. "Did I get it off?"

"I wasn't staring at your nose, I was thinking," he mumbled and looked down to his microscope.

"Sherlock," Molly began, "I was wondering . . ."

Sherlock looked down at his watch and interrupted, "Have to go." He gathered the slides he was looking at and left quickly without another word.

If that had been the only time Sherlock had acted so peculiarly Molly would have dismissed it as an eccentricity, especially since once he was back on a case he was his old snarky self. But between cases, he continued to display the staring at Molly thing. Each time when she asked him what was wrong he would shrug, mumble a curt excuse and leave shortly thereafter. The rude answers bothered Molly, after all she had done nothing to deserve them. And then there was the hovering behavior. Molly would look up and find Sherlock near by, so close he was invading her personal space. Molly had seen him do that to John, but she had never been on the receiving end before. It could be quite unnerving, especially when she spoke to him and he physically jumped and looked around in a puzzled way as if he didn't realize where he was. What on earth was going on?

Then his behavior changed again. He abruptly stopped coming to Barts. This was the most distressing action yet. Sherlock was clearly avoiding her for some reason. In the last three weeks she had seen him only once. He had been leaving as she came in to work. Obviously he had been there all night. He had looked at her, solemnly nodded and left without speaking. He never came to the lab when Molly was there. He sent John to pick up the things he needed or used the lab at night or on Molly's day off. Molly wasn't stupid, she knew all this erratic behavior was somehow because of her. What she didn't understand was why. As far as she knew, nothing had changed. Why was he treating her like this? As time went by and he continued to avoid her, her puzzlement changed to hurt, then anger. She went over and over conversations leading up to the beginning of his avoidance but could not find a single reason why he should be treating her like this.

"Well, if Sherlock bloody Holmes was going to treat her this way, let him," she decided, she bloody didn't care.

**ɸ**

Sherlock moved restlessly from the couch to the chair and back to the couch. He couldn't concentrate. He was having difficulty settling down enough to have a coherent thought let alone have the ability to read the latest issue of _The Journal of_ _Modern Chemistry_. He forced his limbs into stillness, not the best way to enter his mind palace, but if he was going to get there at all, it was the only way. He slowed his breathing, visualized opening a large wooden door heavily carved in intricate designs. He walked down a marble floored hallway decorated with paintings by old Dutch Masters. He moved to the end of the hallway where a rather plain door with brass numbers and letter proclaimed 221b. The door swung open and he entered straight into the living room. He nodded to the skull as it grinned down from the mantle.

Something was different, his frown cleared as he realized what it was. John was no longer sitting at the small table typing on his laptop. Of course John was not here. John was with him in reality, he had no need for him to be here any longer. Sherlock glanced at the couch, to his relief Molly was absent also. He sighed gratefully and slumped into his chair allowing his mind to float aimlessly. It felt good to relax. He felt muscles loosen that he hadn't realized were tight. His mind drifted and he felt himself falling asleep. He had never slept in his mind palace. Did that mean he was comatose in reality? He decided he felt so relaxed and comfortable that he didn't care. Some time later he awoke feeling better than he had in weeks.

He knew she was there before he opened his eyes. He carefully opened one eye. There she was. Molly Hooper was seated in John's chair reading a book. He could even see the title she was reading: _The Joy of Sex, the Ultimate Revised Edition. _What in the world was she reading that book for? It had to be at least forty years old, even if it was supposedly revised. He closed his eyes. Why was she here bothering him? A small voice in the background reminded him he was currently avoiding all contact with Molly Hooper. He opened one eye again. Molly was still there reading a book. The title had changed he noticed. Now she was reading _The Big Fun Sexy Sex Book_. If she was going to stay here he decided grumpily, he would just go to another room. He closed his eyes again and when he opened them he was in the library. Unfortunately so was Molly. She was sitting quietly at a corner table dressed in that black shirt/dress thing she had worn to distract Moriarty's guards and was reading:_ Bonk, the Curious Coupling of Science and Sex_." Oh for God's sake," Sherlock grumbled. If she wasn't going to stay in the living room like a nice ghost, he was going to have to do something drastic like actually talk to her in reality. He looked at her again hoping if he stared long enough she would disappear. The only thing that changed was the title of the book she was reading. Now it said: _The Modern Kama Sutra_.

**ɸ**

John stopped by the morgue to pick up some things for Sherlock. Molly had her back to him working on her computer. He glanced at the screen over her shoulder and stared. Molly had her Curriculum Vitae up on the screen.

"You're not planning on applying for a new job are you?" he asked worriedly.

"As a matter of fact, I am." Molly answered. "I received a heads up from a friend that there is a position coming available in Cardiff next month. I'm working on my CV to make it current before applying for the job."

"But what about Sherlock?"

"What about him?" Molly asked reluctantly.

"You can't just go off and leave him."

"Yes, I can. I don't see that it would make any difference to him one way or the other," Molly replied.

Slowly with John's persistent questions Molly told him what Sherlock had been like over the past two months. John was dumbfounded, he had no idea that things between Sherlock and Molly had deteriorated so badly.

"Molly, you and Sherlock need to talk." John said firmly.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen. He's avoiding me like I have the plague." Molly retorted.

"Well, you could go to him. Back him in a corner or something and make him talk."

"Look, we both know Sherlock's not going to talk unless he wants to," Molly said. "From where I stand it's pretty clear he's just not interested. He's satisfied with his solution of not being around me. I just intend on making sure it's permanent. It's time for me to move on."

John turned his back to Molly and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. He knew Molly loved Sherlock and he suspected his friend more than liked her. John thought of how Sherlock's face had looked when he thought Molly had been in the crashed helicopter. It was just that Sherlock was being totally oblivious about it now.

He turned to Molly and said, "Molly I want you to think about something. Think back when you were in your teens and just starting to notice boys. How did those boys act toward you? I'm not talking about the popular ones, think about the average guys. Does it remind you of how Sherlock has been acting toward you?"

Molly looked at him astonished "Oh, come on!" she said, "You can't possibly believe he acting like an immature boy do you?"

John smiled. "That's exactly what I am suggesting. Think about it Molly, When do you suppose he learned any dating skills? You know how rude he can be around people in general. What makes you think he would be any better initiating a relationship? I'm not saying he is necessarily inexperienced, what I am saying is I don't think any of those experiences developed into a relationship. If you care for him at all don't you think he deserves at least one more chance?"

"I don't see that it would do any good." Molly said stubbornly. "What could I do that would make a difference? Sherlock will take one look at me and say something really mean."

"Yes, he probably will," John agreed. "I'm not saying it will be easy, on the contrary I imagine it may be the hardest thing you have ever done. You will have to decide which is more important to you, your pride or taking a chance that you may be humiliated. You're leaving at any rate, So what do you have to lose?"

"l'lI think about it," Molly replied with a doubtful tone. She hesitated and then spoke. "John," she paused for a second then continued, "About you and Sherlock, I'm not interfering with how things are with you two?"

John was about to make a scathing retort, but seeing the genuine concern on Molly's face, softened his reply. "I do know that some people think that Sherlock and I are more than just friends. But that's all that we really are. Very good friends, best friends, I do love him, but like a brother. I promise you I'm really not gay."

Molly nodded slowly. John could almost hear her next question. "As for Sherlock," He continued gently, "Who knows for sure? I know he sometimes acts like he is in public just to aggravate me. He thinks it's hilarious when I get upset. But he has never given me any indication that he was physically attracted to me. As to whether he is gay or hetero, I'm not convinced he is either. He's just Sherlock. He's complicated. You know you haven't picked the easiest person to fall in love with."

"I know," Molly smiled.

John turned to leave, hesitated, then faced Molly again. "If you are serious about talking to Sherlock, I'll be out of town Tuesday and Wednesday to visit Harry. I asked Sherlock if he wanted to go with me but he is not keen on letting anyone else know he is alive right now. I know for a fact that he plans to catch up on his reading in the journals that have piled up since he left. You could go to Baker Street to talk. Just start with something he is interested in and go from there. I know you can do it." John smiled and gave her a hug before he left.

Molly was confused and distressed. The old Molly, the shy mousey Molly wanted to run to Cardiff and wrap everything up as a bad experience. It would be so easy. A new life, a new start. Something told her that if she ran, if she didn't at least try to talk to Sherlock, she would never be the person she wanted to become. She would always be something less, someone who would live the rest of her life wishing she had been brave enough to fight for what she had wanted.

The new Molly was still developing. "Do I have the courage to face Sherlock and accept the consequences?" She thought she could handle his anger and even derisive remarks; after all she had plenty of experience in that area.

What happened if he looked at her with pity in his eyes? When he kindly explained to her that while he was very flattered at her attentions he was just not interested? Could she handle humiliation? It was the thing she feared the most.

"Oh, bloody hell," Molly muttered to herself. Even if she lost everything, it was better than the limbo-hell she was in right now. If her life was going to go up in flames, so be it. She would rather go out with a roar than ever squeak like a mouse again. If she couldn't handle a little sarcasm or pity or what ever the man decided to dish out, she didn't deserve Sherlock Holmes. What she needed now was a plan.


	10. A Perfect Day

Chapter 10

A Perfect Day

Molly needed a plan.

What she wanted to do was storm over to Baker street and beat some sense into the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes! She could do it too, she thought with grim satisfaction. She sat at her computer drumming her fingers on the desk in frustration. She didn't really want to beat him up she told herself, but she could think of a few choice words she would like to call him.

While she was thinking, she idly Googled "London" and the dates John said he was going to be out of town. Molly looked at the screen and began to smile. As she thought about what she saw she realized it was perfect. She was pretty sure it would interest Sherlock and if she made a fool of herself what difference did it make?" She began to make a list.

Later that evening she sat on the sofa in her flat holding Toby. Except for a new kink in his tail, Toby had survived Jim Morairty's cruel treatment without permanent damage.

Molly looked down at Toby, it was remarkable he was still alive. He had been a real mess when Lestrade had tracked him down. A couple of weeks in Soho Animal Hospital had worked wonders, he was back to his old self.

"It wasn't very nice of you to nibble on Mrs. Duncan like that you know." she scolded him gently. "I know she was a nosey old thing, but she was only trying to help." In spite of her cigarettes and constant questions, Molly did miss the old lady. She picked up Toby and held him up, looking into the mysterious yellow-green eyes.

"She loved you too." Molly told him, "I suppose, knowing her, she probably didn't mind that her body kept you alive long enough to be rescued." Thoughts of her neighbor's unexpected death saddened her. Jim Moriarty was responsible for so much agony and distress in the lives he had touched. She was glad he was locked away in solitary confinement. She hoped he rotted there.

Thoughts of Moriarty lead to thoughts of Sherlock and his dangerous life style. Molly knew every day could be the one he died. She also knew he would rather be dead than change the way he lived. Danger and solving problems was all he really cared about. She didn't wish anything different for him. She understood the danger was what fed him. He could not be without it and still remain the Sherlock she knew and loved.

_"Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero_." Molly whispered to herself. She was determined that she was not going to look back someday and regret that she had not made the most of her time with this strange but wonderful man.

Molly looked at the items she had collected and placed on the coffee table before her.

"You know Toby," she addressed the cat solemnly. "This may be the stupidest thing I have ever done. He is going to think I'm an utter fool and tell me so."

Toby just looked at her. He didn't think she was a fool or stupid, he knew she was the second smartest person he knew. He began to purr loudly. He knew she liked to hear him purr.

**Φ**

Monday afternoon Sherlock had been totally surprised at John's casual mention that Molly was planning to move to Cardiff.

"Cardiff?, Why would she want to move to Cardiff?" he asked incredulously.

"I believe she said something about needing a change in scenery, making a fresh start, meeting new friends, you know something like that." John replied vaguely. "You sure you don't want to come with me to visit Harry?"

"You know I don't get along with your sister."

"Only because you called her a drunken twit."

"Well, it's the truth and she called me a mindless robot first. I am not mindless." Sherlock replied in an offended tone. "And I certainly don't appreciate being called one by a drunken twit."

It amused John that Sherlock did not seem to have trouble with being called a robot. In fact he probably considered that a compliment to his skills in logic. Rather he objected being labeled mindless.

"I'll be leaving in about a half hour if you decide you would like to go with me." he replied. He turned to leave the room and grinned has he heard Sherlock grumbling to himself :

"Cardiff. Why would anyone give up London to live in Cardiff?"

"Okay, Molly." John thought as he climbed the stairs to his room. "It's up to you now."

**Φ**

Wednesday morning started out at 221b with streams of sunlight filtering through the curtains and reflecting off the figure of the tall man pacing back and forth in front of the couch. Dust motes danced, settled, then danced again as Sherlock moved to and fro. It would be clear to an even casual observer that he was highly agitated. He abruptly sank onto the couch placed his elbows on his knees and doubling over ran his hands irritably through his hair. Something had to be done about Molly Hooper. It was all too much. Not only had she invaded his mind palace, but now she was active in his dreams as well. She had filled the few hours of sleep he had been able to catch in the last two days. The Molly in his dreams was much less demure than the one in the Mind Palace. No doubt a result of all those books she had been reading he concluded rather irrationally. He stood up and began to pace again. If he let her go off to Cardiff who knew how long she would continue to plague him? His luck, he thought sourly, it would probably be forever. He desperately wanted the old Molly back. The one whose work was so meticulous and well organized. He had never told her so of course, but he truly appreciated her abilities as a pathologist and he knew he could trust her excellent capabilities as an occasional assistant. She had been so easy to control. A quick smile or a light complement and he pretty much had anything he required at the lab. When she became distracting or annoying a word or two or sometimes just a look would have her scurrying away until the next time he required her. He needed to talk reason to her. Make her see that this new attitude of hers was quite disastrous. She was being totally irrational. Surely if he explained it clearly, she would see the error of her ways? Part of him liked the new changed Molly he cautiously admitted to himself. She was certainly more interesting. He never knew what she was going to say or do. But he certainly didn't need the way she had been distracting him lately.

He began to make plans. Today was her day off, he would need to wait until tomorrow to drop by the morgue and clear things up he decided. The sooner everything got back to normal the better for all concerned. He walked over to the window and looked down. His body stiffened as he watched Molly Hooper climb out of a cab. She was carrying a fairly large cardboard box closed at the top by overlapping flaps.

The knock on the door downstairs was greeted by welcoming murmurs from Mrs. Hudson. He sighed as he heard the stairs creak. Too much to hope she was just visiting Mrs. Hudson. It looked like the conversation was going to happen now. It really didn't matter, he told himself. He waited until he heard the distinctive creak of he last step, then opened the door.

"Come in Molly." his voice was carefully neutral.

Smile plastered on her face, Molly sailed past him as she carried the box across the room and placed it on the small table between the two chairs on either side. Her smile wavered slightly before she turned and faced him.

"We need to talk." Sherlock told her in his low voice.

Molly stared for a second. _He isn't going to make it easy,_ she thought grimly beneath her smile. She had to keep control of this situation or she was going to lose big time.

Still smiling as if she hadn't a care in the world she nodded in agreement. "Yes, we do need to talk. But not here and not now. Maybe later today. For now I've come to pay a visit because John says you haven't had a case in a couple of weeks and he was concerned about going out of town when you were so bored. I thought maybe I would come over and help distract you for a while?"

Sherlock stared, A hysterical giggle started welling up in the back of his throat. _She wanted to distract him_? That was all she had been doing for the past few weeks! He clamped down the emotion and just nodded, not trusting what his voice might sound like if he tried to speak.

"Good," Molly said and pointed to Sherlock's chair. "If you'll just sit down, we'll get started. I've got a lot planned for today."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Let me see," He clasped his fingers together in front of his chest index fingers tapping his chin. "You have a crystal ball in that box and you plan to tell me my fortune." _This was easy_, _let's see how she handles that_, he thought smugly. He was faintly relieved his voice sounded quite normal.

Molly's grin grew wider. "Good guess," she said, "but I'm afraid you've got it wrong. I suppose your deductions are based on my outfit? I admit the blouse, scarf and earrings did start out life as a gypsy costume, but I have adapted them and I promise everything I'm wearing is totally appropriate for the activities I have planned."

"In other words, you cheated." Sherlock growled.

"Only a little, how do you expect me to have a chance to interest you if I don't provide a little mystery? Besides it will do you good not to be right all the time."

Molly opened the box on the table and pulled out two nondescript earthenware mugs and two bottles of rum. She opened one of the bottles poured a measure of rum into a mug and handed it to Sherlock.

"Drink up now." she encouraged as she opened the other bottle and poured herself an even more generous amount.

"I do have glasses of my own," he remarked. "There was no need to bring your own. It's only ten o'clock. Don't you think it's a little early to be drinking?"

"Nah," she grinned. "It's totally the thing to do on this auspicious occasion." She looked down at the mug in her hand." And as to this;" she raised the mug in a salute, "rum always tastes better in a mug. I think it's an old school thing. Do you know what today is?" She gulped the contents of her mug and looked at him expectantly.

Why was she asking a question like that? Molly was leaping from one subject to the next so rapidly it was hard to keep up. He nonchalantly emptied his own mug. He felt the fiery liquid slide smoothly down his throat. Molly had splurged, this was very good rum.

"Well?" she asked again, "do you know what day this is?" She refilled both mugs.

Was this another trick question? He scowled, and then said. "Nineteenth of September, Two thousa . . ."

"Yes, yes." Molly interrupted, "but do you know what day it is?" she asked again then downed the contents of her mug.

Sherlock scowled, he lifted his mug and drained it. Fixing Molly with an irritated stare he pointed to the mugs as she began to refill them. "If you continue to drink in this manner, you'll be under the table soon," he observed. "What's this all about?"

Molly just grinned and repeated her question. "Do you know what day it is?"

Sherlock sighed. "Wednesday?"

Molly rolled her eyes dramatically. "Obviously," she said and drained her mug for the third time. "Let me see. . . how can I make this more clear? Um, some days have special festivities attached to them. Like Christmas or Halloween. Do you know what is special about today? Drink up," she admonished, "you're falling behind."

"I haven't a clue." Sherlock answered dryly and drained his mug. As the third drink settled in his empty stomach he noticed he was feeling a pleasant buzz. He held out his mug for a refill, but Molly just shook her head. "I just need you to relax a little." she said. "I don't want you pickled."

He scowled and looked at Molly standing there grinning. He did feel relaxed. It came to him in a flash. "You are dressed as a pirate!" he announced suddenly. "Today must have something to do with pirates. Are we going on a treasure hunt?"

"Excellent!" Molly approved. "Pirates it is. Not a treasure hunt though, at least not this time."

Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes as Molly calmly drained her mug for the fourth, or was it the fifth time? Her eyes were alert. Her cheeks were flushed, but not overly so. She stood steady in those ridiculously sexy spiked heel boots. "What are you drinking Molly?"

Molly laughed, "Lemonade with food coloring. A girl has to keep her wits about herself when dealing swashbuckling pirates."

"Today," she informed him importantly, "is _International Talk Like a Pirate Day_! All over London people are gathering to participate in events and to celebrate all things pirate." At his look of doubt she said, "If you don't believe me, just look it up on the Internet."

"Now let's see, you need and outfit, nothing too flamboyant." She eyed him up and down. "The jeans and shoes are okay, and your beard and moustache are perfect. The only thing you will need is a different shirt, and I've got just the thing." She reached into the box again and brought out a striped pull-over shirt.

Sherlock took one look at the shirt and began to laugh.

"What's wrong?" Molly frowned.

"Nothing." Sherlock continued to chuckle, "It's just that John has one exactly like it."

Molly eyes opened wide. She clapped her hand over her mouth and began to laugh. "You could go as twins!"

Sherlock grinned and said," He'll have a fit." They both looked at each other and laughed.

"Be sure to get a picture if you can." Molly giggled. She looked down at her watch. "Oh gosh, hurry up and put this on," she said as she handed the shirt over. "We don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" he asked, but she had her head buried in the box again.

Molly allowed herself a few peeks as Sherlock turned his back and removed his shirt. His muscles rippled as he lifted his arms to pull the striped shirt over his head. He had a really nice bum too, she thought to herself. What she didn't realize was that from the angle he was standing, Sherlock could see a perfectly clear reflection of her face in the mirror over the fireplace.

It was good to know Molly wasn't as calm and collected as she appeared, he smirked. He thought of several choice remarks but surprised himself when he decided he didn't want to say them. It would embarrass her, he realized. Anyway, he wanted to see what she was up to next. He'd never know if she got mad and stormed out. He straightened his face and turned around. Molly had her head down in the box shuffling items around.

"Do you have a kitchen sink in there by any chance?" he asked as her head popped up and she held a small black box in her hand.

"What?" she asked, "Oh, very funny." She offered the box to him. "I noticed your left ear is pierced," she said rather breathlessly. "I've never seen you wear anything in it. Has it been a while since you wore anything? Is the hole still open?"

"Since University days," he murmured. "Mycroft was being an ass about my decisions on my future career. I did it to annoy him."

Sherlock slowly opened the small pasteboard box. Inside was an exquisite gold hoop earring. Thick and heavy it was clearly designed for a man. It was no cheap piece of costume jewelry. Obviously she had

tried to disguise how much she had spent on it by placing it in the box. Surprisingly it slid into place with only a small amount of working it back and forth. He looked at Molly. "Thank you," he said simply.

Molly smiled. "It looks good, especially with the beard. It suits you." she said.. "Come on, we have to go or we're going to miss it."

"May I at least inquire what we are going to miss?" Sherlock asked mildly.

"Trafalgar square please." Molly informed the cabbie.

"We are about to be part of a flash mob of pirates." she grinned. When they arrived at Trafalgar square it was obvious something was up. People were milling about staring at their mobile phones. Molly had hers out and murmured "Get ready. when the alarm on my phone goes off we are supposed to spend one minute saying "Aarr" to everyone around us, then we are free to express ourselves by talking whatever pirate lingo we desire for five minutes."

Phone alarms began beeping. Suddenly they were surrounded by a mass of people thumping each other on the back and shouting "Aarr!" in as many different ways as there were people. Molly lost sight of Sherlock as he was surrounded by several rather buxom wenches and she found herself lifted off her feet by a rather large pirate with a gold tooth and a braided beard. The Aarrs died down and a positive babble of speech flowed up from the gathered crowd. Molly fixed eyes on the large pirate holding her.

"Avast ye low lyin' bilge rat!" she growled. "Release me or I'll keelhaul your scurvy arse and stuff what's left through the nearest bunghole!"

The large pirate laughed, put her gently down and swept a low bow before her. "Arrgh! Beggin' your pardon me proud beauty. I was meanin' no offense. I've sailed the seven seas and you're the sleekest schooner I've ever had pleasure to rest me eyes on!" He swept her another bow and grinned as he moved on.

Molly soon found herself in the arms of a gangly pirate with a very large nose. All around her pirates were trading insults, trying to outdo their opponents. Or as in the case of her beaky swab, trying to kiss as many girls as he could in the allotted time. Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself. He was surrounded by a bevy of fetching wenches and if one of the buxom ladies had a rather large Adam's Apple he seemed to be taking it all in stride. Finally, alarms began beeping all around and people good naturedly shook hands or slapped one another on the back and drifted away in all directions. If some of them left with people other than whom they came with, well they were all adults. Molly walked up to Sherlock who grinned at her.

"That was interesting," he commented as they walked away. Molly laughed and handed him a tissue.

"You have lipstick on your cheek," she remarked saucily.

"You have stubble burn on yours," he grinned.

Molly nodded, "Pirate speed dating has its drawbacks," she said. They both laughed.

Linking arms they walked until they found a fish and chips stall. Later they toured a small maritime and pirate museum. Molly was impressed by the details Sherlock was familiar with on the subject. When she commented on it, he just smiled and said it had been a favorite interest of his when he was a child. Afterward they took a taxi to the Prince Charles Theatre for Molly's promised grand finale. Featured was a marathon of Pirate Movies. The auditorium was crowded but they finally found two seats together and settled down with popcorn and drinks. The first feature started with a loud cheer from the crowd. It was an old black and white movie with terrible dialogue and even worse acting. It was perfect. The crowd cheered when the hero appeared, whistled at the wenches, and made kissing noises during the romantic scenes. Several people, including Sherlock called out funny remarks at the most inappropriate times, the crowd roared in appreciation. Someone had brought several large black balloons with skull and crossbones on them which were constantly bouncing up and down as the audience batted them back and forth. It was very silly and everyone had a wonderful time. Three movies later, they headed back to Molly's flat. The taxi ride was quiet. Molly was content to rest her head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Outside the door of her flat, Molly gazed up into Sherlock's moonstone eyes.

"Thank you, Molly," he murmured, "for a perfect day."

"It was good wasn't it?' she agreed.

Sherlock nodded placing a hand on either side of her beautiful upturned face. He held her gently as he lowered his mouth to hers.

How could he have ever thought her mouth was too small? It was just right, he decided as he deepened the kiss.

Molly was totally shattered. If he let go of her she knew her body would immediately dissolve into a puddle on the floor. She unconsciously wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him closer. She felt him press her into the wall. Fire coursed down her spine and set her aflame. She groaned.

Sherlock pulled back slightly. "Okay?" he asked.

Molly clung to him weakly. "Oh God," she said, "you make my toes hurt!"

He frowned slightly. "Is that bad?"

"No," she whispered, "it's wonderful."

"Aah," he said and lowered his lips to hers again.

Sometime later he lifted his head and pulled Molly's head to his shoulder and held her close. "You could invite me in." He suggested in a low voice. He felt her tremble. He pulled back watched the emotions play across her face. He watched as resolve took hold.

"I could ask you in," Molly agreed. "But I'm not going to." Her face turned away in embarrassment. Sherlock gently placed a finger under her chin and moved her face until her eyes looked into his, pleading for understanding.

"I know it's not done nowadays. People meet and jump into relationships overnight all the time. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm a little old-fashioned, is it so wrong to want to slow down a bit and enjoy the journey?"

Sherlock pulled Molly against him gently. He could feel her trembling, he knew she was afraid he was going to walk away because she refused to quickly jump into bed. He began to speak softly.

"I once had the privilege to know a very wise man. He was the grounds keeper on my grandmother's estate. Though looking back on it now, he was probably much more than that. His name was Paul Sargon and he taught me everything I know about deduction and observation. One day when I had just turned twelve he told me a story. I would like to tell it to you if you don't mind?"

Molly nodded and rested her head against his chest. She felt like a prude and a fool.

"I remember we were sitting on the hillside looking out over the rows of grape vines. He told me he was going to teach me a lesson that I wouldn't understand fully until I was older but he knew I was clever enough to remember it and think about it later. I think he knew my time with him was about to end." Sherlock moved uncomfortably. "I wish I could tell you that I took his lesson to heart and allowed it to guide my life. The truth is I haven't even though of it until now. Anyway, we were sitting on the hillside and I remember the smell of the grapes in the sunlight like it was yesterday. Monsieur Sargon held his arm out and pointed to the vineyard."

As Sherlock continued to speak Molly envisioned the old man and young Sherlock. Soon she was no longer hearing Sherlock's voice, but rather hearing the words as if the old man was speaking directly to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," the old man had said, "this is a very important lesson you must learn if you are to be happy in this life." Paul Sargon gazed at the vineyard sadly.

"There are many kinds of grapes and all can be turned into wine with a little effort and time. But not all grapes are alike and the wines produced from them vary greatly in richness and taste. Some grapes are carelessly grown and the wines produced from them are harsh and cheap; not fit for the palate. Avoid those at all cost. They are not worth your time."

"Other grapes are adequate and have a certain appeal, but they are hastily processed into wine and can not stand the test of time. Their vintage sours with age and brings discontent to all who continue to consume it."

"But some wines are like the ones made from the grapes you see before you. They have been carefully nurtured. They ripen slowly in the sun and their taste is a joy to the tongue. Wines carefully made from such grapes are made better by blending the strengths and weaknesses . And over time, as the wine matures, it blossoms into a fullness that is a delight to the one who consumes it. Such wine only grows better with time. If one is very fortunate, once in a great while he may find himself the owner of a truly great wine. It is rare thing that should always be savored and protected from those who do not appreciate its worth."

"The lesson I want you to learn, Sherlock, is that women are exactly like wine. You must learn to be a connoisseur of only the finest. Don't waste your time on cheap imitations. And if you would be so lucky as to meet a truly rare one, one whose beauty comes from the quality of the convictions from which was she was formed, be sure to treat her with the respect and honor she deserves. Your grand mere is such a woman. She has only love and compassion to give to all those around her. You would do well to search for someone like her. All who know her have been blessed."

"I think," Sherlock said after a time, "He must have loved her very much. She died a few days after he told me this story."

Sherlock wiped the tears from Molly's cheeks. "I didn't tell you this to make you sad," he said. "Only to say, I know I'm not a good man, I don't even know how to begin to become one. But I think I finally understand what Monsieur Sargon was talking about. I can't change the past Molly. I'm not sure where all this is going to. But if you want to go slow, we will go as slow as you need. After all," he smiled, every woman deserves a little romance in her life. "Sherlock leaned down and kissed her cheek. "May I call you tomorrow?"

Molly looked up and smiled, he was as formal as an eighteenth century gentleman. "I'd like that," she replied.

"Good night Molly," he said simply and was gone.

Molly let herself into her flat in a daze. She felt like someone who had been knocked senseless. She sank to the sofa and held Toby in her arms.

"What do you think Toby? I think I just might die from being overwhelmingly in love."

Toby, just sat on her lap and purred.

The End

A/N - Finally the end! I got so excited about finishing I popped a whole roll of bubble wrap in celebration. I'm honestly sorry for telling you all that I was going to write a short epilogue and then let it turn into two more chapters! Next time I will not say anything in advance until I have actually typed the words "The End!" To all, best wishes and thanks for all the kind words.

Announcement - Actually, I have decided this is only the beginning for Molly Hooper. I like her new determination so much I'm planning to write several more stories in an "Unstoppable" series. If you have any situations you would like to see Molly get into and out of in the future, let me know and I'll see what I can do!

Translation:

_Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero_ – "Seize the day, putting as little trust as possible in the future."


End file.
